


Make Those High Heels Work

by just_folie_a_deux_it



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2018-10-24 17:50:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10746771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_folie_a_deux_it/pseuds/just_folie_a_deux_it
Summary: Brendon works with Ryan, Spencer, and Jon, all for Pete, though they hardly see each other. When Ryan saves him one day, Brendon finds himself falling for his boss's favorite employee. Only trouble can come about.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [servecobwebheadaches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/servecobwebheadaches/gifts).



> Isabelle a.k.a servecobewebheadaches gave me the idea and I just ran with it

Brendon can’t breathe. It’s the only thing running through his head at the moment as he’s curled in the grass shaking. _“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.” _It’s being chanted over and over in this thoughts, but the mantra isn’t bringing him any more air than his aching lungs. Everything is overbright, technicolor. The sky is too blue above him— skewed and tilted because he’s on his side, the grass is a disgusting, unreal green that’s pressing into his cheek, and all of the flowers, scattered in the bushes that he tends to across the lawn seem to glare at him: red, purple, pink, white. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen making everything feel like a rainbow is trying to force its way inside of him through his eyes. Maybe he’s dying. For a long time now, what feels like years, the only sound he’s been able to hear is the roar of blood in his own ears and the weak gasps coming from his lips, but suddenly there’s a far away shout and the thud of running footsteps. They seem louder and harder with his ear pressed into the dirt, less human, more giant. They’re closer now, and then suddenly, they stop. The Sun that was just in his eyes moments ago disappears and a cool shadow covers him.__

____

____

“Hey. Hey, can you hear me? Hello? Can you hear me?” The words are warped and far off, though Brendon feels hands touching him.

He opens his mouth to reply, but everything is getting hazier and his last thought before it all goes black is, “I am _so _fired.”__


	2. Chapter 2

When Brendon comes to, he’s no longer outside on the grass. His head is throbbing, though, making it hurt to even look around so he isn’t entirely sure _where_ he is. He gives a soft groan, hand going to his head and fingertips lightly probing at his temple. He hisses when he feels a bump, the flesh there tender and sore.

“Yeah, you- uh-well actually, Spence-uh-well okay, _I_  dropped you and you hit your head.” A voice comes. “But to be fair, I thought Spencer was gonna help and he just kinda let you go so I fumbled and you just-” There’s the sound of hands smacking together, probably to demonstrate the way Brendon’s head hit the ground. “So, sorry. It’s probably gonna hurt for a little while.”

Brendon blinks and turns his head slightly, catching sight of a boy sitting next to him. Taking the chance to glance around a little more despite the pain, he realizes he’s in his own room. There’s his clothes hanging over the chair and there’s his guitar propped in the corner. His eyes flick back to the boy.

“What happened?” It seems like the first logical question, though perhaps offering thanks would have been a better first step.

The boy tilts his head and frowns. “We were kind of hoping you could tell us.” He says. “You’re Brendon, right?”

Brendon nods and then groans softly because _that_ was a terrible idea; it feels like his brain is rattling around in his head.

“I’m Ryan.”

Brendon’s about to nod again, but catches himself. “I know.” He mumbles instead.

They work together. Or, they work in the same vicinity, at least. Both for Pete Wentz, internationally known rich boy who has his own mansion that his parents pay for, though he lives by himself so why he needs an entire mansion is beyond Brendon’s comprehension. Ryan is Pete’s favorite and he can do whatever he wants. He’s miles above Brendon, doesn’t have to do things like yard work or washing the cars. And despite the fact that they both live together with two other guys who also work for Pete, Brendon’s so busy all of the time they rarely see one another. It’s why they hardly interact, why he probably wasn’t sure of Brendon’s name.

“Right, well, if you don’t mind me asking, why were you lying on the ground?” Ryan asks. He looks less upset than concerned, so maybe Brendon’s not in terrible trouble.

Brendon thinks back, remembering how that day it had been so damn hot. He’d been trimming the rose bushes and had been thinking of how sweet it was that he was nearly done. So close to being able to go back to the house that he and the three other guys shared and showering. He was excited to play his guitar, relax and work on a new song he’d been toying with, and he’d gotten so distracted that he’d cut a large chunk out of one bush. Like, large enough that from afar, you could tell someone had fucked up doing their job. And that someone was Brendon.

Though he’d tried just shoving the branches back into place, all he’d amassed were some cuts on his fingers from the thorns. He was so utterly fucked and he _needed_ this job, if he got fired he was going to be homeless and unemployed and that could _not_ happen. He had something to prove. However, his brain had decided that instead of trying to come up with a logical solution, or at least a good excuse to give to Pete when he asked, it was simply going to throw Brendon into a panic attack. Which was how he’d ended up hyperventilating on the ground when Ryan apparently discovered him.

Brendon, however, doesn’t tell any of this to Ryan. He’s not about to come off as incapable of doing his job, especially not to someone who’s so close to Pete. Instead, he just says, “I got overheated. Must have been dehydrated.”

Ryan frowns like he doesn’t believe Brendon, but doesn’t argue with him either. Instead, he just stands and Brendon blinks as he catches full view of the boy. Ryan’s tall, definitely taller than Brendon, and lanky too, though not necessarily skinny. His light brown hair falls into his eyes a little bit, but Brendon can see that those are brown too, lighter than his own. It’s the first time he’s really had the chance to actually _look_ at the other boy and damn, he’s been missing out.

“I’m going to talk to Pete.” Ryan says.

Immediately Brendon’s heart begins to race and he thinks he may pass out again. “No! No, please, it really wasn’t that big of a deal, it won’t happen again. One time thing, I promise, please.” He attempts to sit up, but it makes his head spin and Ryan’s pushing him back down with a hand planted firmly on his chest.

“No way, this is ridiculous. It’s totally unfair of him to make you work out there all by yourself. Spencer gets help from Jon in the kitchen, and I hardly do anything that isn’t like, laundry, so why should you have to do the entire lawn by yourself?” Ryan frowns.

Brendon blinks. “Y-you-you’re not going to get me fired?” He asks.

“ _Fired!_?” Ryan exclaims. “Why the hell would I get you fired? You do a great job, I’m gonna go give Pete a goddamn piece of my mind, that’s what I’m gonna do!”

“You don’t have to, really, it’s not-”

“Shut up.” Ryan says simply. “Pete’s parents come visit sometimes and if they find people fainting all across the lawn because Pete’s a damn jackass, they’ll say something, maybe cut him off. And then not only will he be a little bitch, but we’ll all be out of work.” Ryan glances down at Brendon and smiles slightly. “You stay here and rest, if you need anything call for Spencer.” He murmurs. “I’ll be back.”

Brendon nods dumbly, ignoring how it makes his head ache even further. He’s not used to this, not used to be cared for. Not since he was little and still lived with his parents at least. Now this tall boy who Brendon’s never said two words to before is swooping in to save the day? It doesn’t add up, and Brendon can’t help but think that this sort of thing doesn’t come for free.

“I owe you one.” He calls as Ryan turns and reaches for the doorknob.

It’s not quite a statement, not quite a question, just a sentence hanging there for Ryan to do with as he pleases.

“Sure, if you say so.” Ryan shrugs, and the door swings shut.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Ryan’s assurances that he wasn’t going to get Brendon fired, the latter spends the better part of an hour filled with a disgusting amount of anxiety until there’s a knock on the door. He looks up, his fingers picking nervously at the threads of his blanket.

“Uhm, come in?” He tries. His voice sounds uncharacteristically high pitched, so he clears his throat and swallows. His heart thumps loudly in his ears and he tugs nervously at his bottom lip with his teeth. It could be Ryan, coming to tell him that things just didn’t work out and Brendon was gonna have to go. Hell, it could Pete, and that’d be ten times worse.

The door swings open and Brendon is shaking as he lifts his eyes, but it’s not Ryan _or_ Pete. It’s a boy with bright blue eyes, clearer and prettier than the sky outside Brendon’s window.

“Hey, I’m Spencer.” He smiles, just slightly. “I don’t know if Ryan told you that I was here, but we got off early and I was just checking on you.” He explains. “I brought you an ice pack for your head, since Ryan dropped you and all.” He sighs. “Sorry about that, by the way. I thought he had you.”

Brendon shakes his head quickly and then has to hold a hand to his temple because he’s pretty sure his brain nearly just fell out of his ears with the movement. “Ah, no, no it’s okay. Thanks for-you know, saving me and stuff.” He mumbles, rubbing at his head.

Spencer nods. “Of course, I’m just glad you’re alright. It was terrifying, finding you out on the ground like that; Ryan came and got me, but by the time we got back out there you weren’t even moving. I thought you were dead.” He admits.

He steps into the room, balancing the ice pack on one arm with a bottle of pills and a water. “Anyways, Ryan should be back pretty soon so I’m gonna go ahead and start dinner.” He says, setting the things on Brendon’s nightstand. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

Brendon smiles gratefully, ignoring the way his cheeks flush slightly. “Yeah, thank you.” He says. “Seriously, thank you so much.”

The other boy seems incredibly kind, if a little exasperated with the situation and Brendon can’t help but wish that he’d stick around a little longer and just talk. However, Spencer goes for the door and leaves, shutting it gently with a soft click and Brendon’s left alone in his room again.

He’s already scanned every inch of the place, taking note of fine details he’d never cared to notice before like the small chip on the corner of his nightstand and the weird stain on his far wall. There’s nothing for him to do; reading hurts his head, and he tried getting up to go and get his guitar but he’d gotten so dizzy that he’d fallen back on his bed in a heap.

He only lasts fifteen more minutes of terrible thoughts of unemployment filling his head before he calls out Spencer’s name. It’s a few long, agonizing seconds before the door cracks open again and Spencer pokes his head in.

“Yeah?”

Brendon blinks, face paling just slightly. Now that Spencer is actually here he’s not entirely sure what to say. He can’t just ask the other boy to drop what he’s doing and entertain his roommate that he hardly knows.

“Uhhh…” He trails off, his brain feeling like its short-circuited for the moment.

Spencer looks back over his shoulder and frowns. “Walker, if that’s my chicken burning I swear to _God_.” He snaps.

There’s a muffled reply and Spencer grits his teeth before turning back to Brendon. “I’ll be right back, excuse me.” He says, flashing a smile before disappearing and shutting the door.

A few moments later the door opens again and Spencer reappears, a little flushed. “Okay, what’s up?” He asks.

“Well, I just-“ Brendon bites his lip. What's he supposed to say? He’s got the attention span of a five-year-old on crack and is terribly lonely? Somehow he doesn’t think that’s the best way to go about this.

“Spence, I’m done!” A voice calls. “Can I _please_ go relax now seeing as I’m _supposed_ to have been done with work for the past two hours anyways?”

Spencer sighs and glares back. “I mean I _guess_ if you want us all to starve!” He cries back. He blinks and then puts a hand on his hip. “Actually, you can come take care of Brendon while I finish dinner!”

Brendon stares. “Oh-wait, no that really isn’t-I mean, I don’t-you don’t have to-“

Spencer shakes his head. “You’re probably super bored in here, right?” He asks. “You’d be doing me a favor if you babysat Jon anyways.” He mutters. “Jonathan Walker, get over here before I-“

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Jesus, Spence, we worked all day long, can’t you give it a rest?”

A taller guy appears behind Spencer; he’s got messy hair and a good amount of scruff on his cheeks.

“Jon, we got off early.” Spencer rolls his eyes. “I’d really like to have dinner done before nine-fucking-o’clock tonight.” He huffs.

The door pushes open wider and the guy-Jon-walks in. “I can hang out with you, dude.” He grins at Brendon, ignoring Spencer. “I’m Jon, you’re Brendon, right?” He asks, offering a hand.

Brendon nods slowly and shakes Jon’s hand.

“Dinner in forty-five, and Jonathan Walker if you don’t take a damn shower beforehand you are getting nothing to eat.” Spencer threatens.

Jon rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

Spencer glares, his eyes piercing right into Jon’s skull, and Brendon shivers. The door just shuts, though, Spencer on the other side, and the footsteps fade away.

Jon hums and flops down on Brendon’s bed, crossing his legs beneath him. “Thanks.” He says, leaning back against the wall and resting his arms behind his head.

“For what?” Brendon asks, tilting his own head as he stares at this man who’s basically a stranger in his bed.

“I hate having to cook dinner with Spencer. He bosses me around all day in the kitchen for our job, I don’t wanna have to come home and deal with his shit too.” Jon laughs. He has warm, brown eyes that crinkle when he smiles and Brendon can't help but think it'd be impossible to not find that endearing.

Brendon laughs too. “So you two work in the main house kitchens, right?” He asks curiously.

Jon nods and closes his eyes. “Mhm.”

“What’s it like?” Brendon’s never even been inside of the main house except for when he got hired, and he’d been too nervous about getting the job to pay attention to what was around him.

“Loud.” Jon says with a small smile. “It’s usually just me and Spence in there cuz we mostly only cook for Pete, but I guess Spencer thinks I’m deaf or something because he’s always yelling at me.” He snorts. “But it’s nice.” He adds. “There’s air conditioning and we get to take home whatever we don’t use for the day. You work out on the lawn, yeah?” He turns to look at Brendon.

Brendon nods, holding in the soft sigh threatening to come out. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Well, what’s that like?”

“Hot.” Brendon snorts. “And sweaty, and there’s lots of dirt.”

“Oh yeah, shit, you passed out didn’t you?” Jon frowns. “Spence said that Ryan dropped you. Sounds like him." He mutters, rolling his eyes. "Why don’t you go talk to Pete about getting some help or something? That’s what Spencer did before I came along.” He explains.

Brendon shrugs, looking back down at his hands as they resume the activity of picking at the threads on his comforter. “I don’t wanna seem ungrateful, y’know? I really need this job and I don’t want Pete to think I can’t do what he’s asking me to.”

Jon nods, slowly stroking at the hint of a beard on his chin. “I guess so. But Spencer didn’t get fired and I’m sure he didn’t ask all nice and polite.”

“Well, Ryan actually went to go ask for me even though I told him not to.” Brendon sighs. He glances back out the window as if maybe he’ll catch sight of the tall brunet boy coming down the walkway, but there’s only the gravel path and the sky beginning to darken.

Jon chuckles. “Yeah, Ryan sort of does whatever he wants when it comes to Pete. But hey, that means you for sure won’t get fired cuz Pete basically does whatever Ryan asks him to even though he’s supposed to be the boss.” He snorts.

Brendon’s not entirely sure what to say to that; he’s heard rumors about Ryan and Pete but he’s not entirely sure how close Jon is to Ryan and saying the wrong thing could go and fuck up any chance he has of keeping his job.

Jon, however doesn’t seem to notice Brendon’s silence on the subject and instead just looks around the room curiously before smiling wide. “Shit, dude, is that yours?” He asks, pointing to Brendon’s guitar in the corner.

Brendon nods with a sheepish smile. “Yeah, she’s mine.”

“You play?” Jon asks, sitting up a little straighter.

“Yeah, when I’ve got the time.” Which is mostly never, but he’s not about to bitch and whine to a potential new friend.

“I’ve got my acoustic back in my room, if you ever get bored or whatever we could totally jam.” Jon suggests, his voice enthusiastic.

Brendon blinks and a grin breaks out across his face. “You’re serious?”

Jon laughs and Brendon can’t help but find the sound to be pleasing, something that relaxes him and brings him a strange sort of comfort he can’t quite explain. “Yeah, man, anytime.”

Brendon bites his lip, trying not to seem too eager. “Well, I’m bored or whatever right now.” He grins.

Jon raises a brow and just laughs again, full and happy, and nods. “Alright, I’ll be right back.” He says, climbing down off of the bed and walking out of the room only to return with a beautiful acoustic in his hands.

Brendon looks down at the instrument and then back up at Jon. “Damn beautiful.” He breathes.

Jon hums and sits down next to Brendon, gently laying the guitar down across his lap before blinking. “Oh, yeah you’re on bedrest.” He says, handing off his instrument to Brendon before standing up and going to the corner to get the guitar. “Here.” He offers Brendon his own and they swap.

Jon sits back down and begins tuning his guitar carefully, tilting his head to listen and Brendon does the same. He hasn’t played in ages and it’s sort of sad to hear his most prized possession so badly out of tune.

Once he’s satisfied, Jon glances over. “You know any Beatles?” He asks.

Brendon laughs. “Oh yeah, I know a bit.” He says, easily strumming out the beginning of Across the Universe.

Jon smiles, looking a little impressed to Brendon, and starts following along and humming the tune.

Brendon can’t help finding Jon incredibly easy to be around, the guy just radiates an aura of contentment. They play for what feels like hours and hours, time blurring into something that no longer exists, but when the door opens again and Spencer looks in, Brendon’s surprised to see that it’s only been about a little over thirty minutes.

“Dinner’s ready.” Spencer says, looking a little taken aback to see Jon and Brendon playing together. “I think you’re okay to get out of bed to come eat.” He adds to Brendon. “If you want to.”

Brendon blinks and looks to Jon, who nods and motions for Brendon to come on. They all end up sitting at the dining table surrounded by six seats that Brendon has never even touched before. Usually when he gets home he’s too tired to think about anything other than showering and falling on his bed before passing out. Food usually consists of a sandwich he takes with him to work for lunch, maybe a banana for breakfast; dinner is basically non-existent.

Now the group is sitting together, Spencer dishing out mashed potatoes and green beans and actual, real, cooked steak onto plates. Brendon’s stomach grumbles and he hopes he’s not actually drooling on the table like he thinks he might be.

They’re halfway through dinner-and Brendon’s already on thirds-when the front door opens and Ryan steps in.

“You’re late.” Spencer notes with a slight frown. “You could at least let us know if you’re staying over there.” He says ‘there’ like one might say ‘cesspool of filth’.

Ryan shrugs and flops down into the chair across from Brendon, grabbing a plate and loading it up. “You know I usually don’t know if I’m staying until I’m already there.” He says, taking a bite.

Brendon can’t help but notice the hickey just barely visible above Ryan’s shirt collar, and for some reason the sight makes him feel slightly nauseous.

Spencer just sighs and doesn’t say anything else about it, though he does exchange a glance with Jon, who gives a sort of knowing grimace.

Brendon doesn’t want to ask if Ryan talked to Pete, doesn’t want to sound desperate or needy, but he’s dying to know if he’s at least still got a job or not. Ryan hasn’t even looked at him yet, though, and this seems like a terrible sign already.

Finally, finally Ryan looks up, smiling slightly. “Oh yeah, Brendon.”

Brendon’s heart skips a beat and may as well have just stopped for the way he can’t breathe now.

“I talked to Pete.” Ryan starts, taking another bite. “He’s totally cool with you getting help and stuff, he didn’t know you were working so hard and so he wants you to go up to the main house tomorrow to talk to him.”

Brendon blinks, unsure if he’s hearing the other boy right. There’s a strange sort of static noise in his ears, and he’s worried for a moment that he might pass out, but then Ryan’s talking again so he forces himself to pay attention.

“-and I mean, obviously don’t be a total ass, but Pete’s pretty cool so I think you’ll be alright.” Ryan says. “You feeling any better?” He asks, wiping his face with one of the napkins.

Brendon nods silently.

“Found him and Jon playing together actually.” Spencer says, looking to Brendon with a soft smile.

“Yeah, he’s so fuckin’ good, Ry.” Jon grins. “And he knows The Beatles.”

Ryan gives what Brendon takes as a hint of a smile and glances back at Brendon. “Does he?” He sounds like he may not believe Jon as he flicks his gaze back to his plate.

Brendon nods again. Words are failing him at this point, though he’s not entirely sure why. Ryan’s just so damn _intimidating_ with his bright eyes that seem to know all the secrets of the universe and his lips that never quite smile, but always look amused, like he’s a part of some inside joke with you. And of course, he’s in extremely close with Brendon’s boss, so if Brendon fucks up even a little bit with either of them, he could be out on his ass in a second.

“We were jamming for like, forty-five minutes before dinner.” Jon says with a hum. “He’s really good, I’m telling you.”

Brendon blushes and looks down at his half-empty plate. “Not that good.” He laughs slightly. His parents always hated his music, yelling at him to either take it outside or shut up.

“Aw, don’t be that guy.” Jon rolls his eyes. “All fake modest and stuff, no one likes that guy.” He teases.

Brendon sighs and pushes back from the table, grabbing his plate up and giving a fake yawn. “I’m still really tired from today, so I think I’m gonna go ahead and go to bed.” He says. “Thanks for dinner, Spencer, it was seriously the best.” Being at the table with all of them feels surreal, almost like he doesn’t belong, shouldn’t belong.

Spencer grins and smiles brightly up at Brendon, his blue eyes sparkling. “That was nothing.” He says. “But thank you.”

“No one likes that guy, Spence.” Jon repeats, rolling his eyes. “Night, Bren. See you tomorrow.”

Brendon nods and glances at Ryan, who’s looking up at him as if he’s already caught onto the fake tired act and isn’t buying it for a second. “Night, Ryan.” He says softly.

“Goodnight, Brendon.” Ryan murmurs. “Sweet dreams.”

And after he puts his dish in the sink and goes to his room, he strips down, laying in his bed and staring up at the ceiling for a while with thoughts of the morning to come filling his mind. It takes _hours_ but Brendon finally falls asleep and his dreams are filled with tall, lanky boys that leave hot kisses across his skin and whisper sweet nothings about music in his ear.


	4. Chapter 4

When Brendon wakes up he’s coated in sweat, sheets tangled all around his legs. His last dream is still fading from his mind, hazy and blurred, but he thinks he can still remember a warm, gentle mouth on his and careful hands on his skin. He shivers at the thought and blinks slowly. It’s still dark out, Moonlight barely filtering through the space between his curtains, but he can make out the furniture in his room and the soft shadows are just starting to shrink. He doesn’t feel like he’s been out that long, but when he clicks his phone on for the time, 5:31 am and two text alerts glare back at him from the screen. He frowns, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes before unlocking the device.

The first message is from Pete. Brendon has to fight back the nauseous feeling that comes when he reads the name, something that isn’t quite fear curling beneath his skin.

_“Talked to Ry. Come to office @ 12:30 tomorrow”_

It isn’t a text notifying him of his termination, but it also isn’t anything to ease the anxious feeling gripping his chest. Ryan hadn’t sounded like Brendon was going to get fired last night at dinner, but that didn’t mean that Pete wasn’t just trying to placate his favorite, and wasn’t going to kick Brendon out the second he walked in the door.

He sighs softly, though the sound seems deafening in the quiet of the early morning in his room. Brushing a hand through his hair, he goes to the next message and blinks, surprise flitting across his once sleepy features.

_“Hope I didn’t fuck your head up too bad, good luck tomorrow. -RR”_

The message is from a number Brendon doesn’t recognize, but there’s only one person he knows with R initials that also knows Pete. _How did Ryan even get his number?_ The text had been sent at near three in the morning and the idea of Ryan thinking of him so late at night makes Brendon’s stomach squirm in a way he isn’t used to.

Sleep is definitely not coming despite the fact that he still has about an hour and a half before his alarm goes off, so he kicks at his covers and stands, stretching; his joints creak and pop and the hard wood of the floor is cool against his bare feet. After making his bed–a habit instilled in him from the days of living with his parents and their strict rules-and pulling some pajama pants and a high school band t-shirt that’s a little too small on, Brendon pads down the hall and towards the kitchen. He can hear someone snoring across the house–Spencer or Jon; Ryan’s room is on the same side of the house as Brendon’s-and he can’t help but smile. Last night had been wonderful; they’d eaten dinner just like a real family, talking and laughing and making jokes. The thought makes Brendon’s heart ache slightly as he thinks of his own family and how they used to be.

In the kitchen he opens up the cabinets, raiding the area for something substantial to eat. ‘Something substantial to eat’ turns out to be a heaping bowl of Cocoa Puffs and a glass of orange juice. He eats in silence for a few minutes; the only sound is of the crunching of cereal in his ears.

After a little while, footsteps sound and Brendon looks up from his place hunched over his breakfast. Ryan walks in, hair ruffled with bedhead and just some pajama pants slung low on his hips. He only looks mildly surprised to see Brendon there.

“Morning.” The other boy mumbles, shooting Brendon a tired smile.

Brendon blushes and swallows the cereal in his mouth, nearly choking, and hurriedly wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good morning.”

Ryan stretches, arms raised high above his head and pants slipping lower down his hips. “You’re up early.” He notes, arms falling back to his side.

Brendon nods, praying to a god he isn’t sure he believes in that his face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. “Couldn’t fall back asleep.” He explains.

How could he with his job on the line and Ryan texting him at three in the morning?

Ryan arches a brow as he makes his way to the coffee pot. “You’re not still worried about Pete?” He asks, getting the machine going before searching the cabinets for a mug.

Brendon wants to kick himself for being so obvious, but he just shrugs and bites his lip. “No…”

Ryan rolls his eyes and sets the green mug he’d grabbed down next to the whirring coffee pot. He turns and pulls the chair across from Brendon out, falling into it and clasping his hands as he sighs. “You worry too much.” He says, like Brendon has a terminal illness.

“What? No I don’t!” Brendon protests. Personally, he thinks that he worries the perfect amount for a person who’s going to be homeless if they lose their job and then will probably end up dead on the streets proving everyone who never believed in him right.

“Yes, you do.” Ryan takes a breath. “You’ve got worry lines.”

Brendon blinks and touches his face.

Ryan stands again, going to fill his mug as the coffee finishes. “Do you want some?” He turns to Brendon.

“Oh no, I don’t do caffeine.” Brendon shakes his head. “Makes me all hyper and shit, trust me you don’t wanna see that.”

Ryan shrugs and tops himself off before taking a sip. Brendon watches as the steam swirls around the other boy’s face as he drinks. “You know,” Ryan starts, setting his mug back down and leaning back, resting one hand on the counter. “I do yoga each morning to help with my stress levels. You could join me today if you want. Might help with your anxiety.”

Brendon blinks and he doesn’t think he could hide the surprise on his face if he tried his hardest. “You do _yoga_?” He asks.

He tries not to sound too judgmental, but Ryan seems like the last guy who would do yoga every morning. Brendon can’t help but think of how his body must look all stretched and taut, muscles straining. He shakes his head, trying to clear it of the image.

“What? Have Spencer and Jon been making fun of me again?” Ryan frowns, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed and a little indignant.

“Huh? No, no, they haven’t said anything about it! I just didn’t know is all.” Brendon says quickly. “Yoga is cool–I mean, I-I’ve never done it-but it seems cool and stuff.”

Ryan nods, offering a hand to Brendon. “It is cool. It’s relaxing.” He says. “Come on, we can do some basic stuff. I’ll teach you the fundamentals, maybe you’ll feel better about your meeting with Pete after.”

Brendon highly doubts that, but he takes Ryan’s hand, trying not to blush and giggle like a stupid kid as he stands. Yoga may be good for like, meditating and your soul and shit, but he doesn’t think that even hardcore drugs could help him not be terrified at the thought of his meeting with Pete.

The two go into the living room and Ryan pulls the curtains back and away from the windows. Sunlight streams in through the glass and once Ryan pushes the shades away from the back door, the entire room glows with the natural yellow of daytime.

Brendon blinks and rubs his eyes. “So, um, do we like say ‘Ummmm’ and stuff?” He asks. He feels like a complete ass, but he’s got no idea what to do.

Ryan laughs just slightly and shakes his head, pulling out two blankets from the corner of the room. “No, just follow my lead. Watch me and just listen to what I say.” He says, spreading the blankets out and stepping onto one.

Brendon nods, though he’s sure that by the time this is over he’ll either have a broken bone or Ryan will be so offended by his terrible attempt at yoga that he’ll never speak to Brendon again. He steps onto the blanket and glances over at the other boy who is stretching. His arms go high over his head, fingertips nearly touching the ceiling, and Brendon takes a breath before raising his limbs as well.

“Pretend that you’ve got a string through your middle.” Ryan says softly, his voice gentle and soothing. “It’s pulling you up, straight, and going right through your core and out your fingertips.”

Brendon nods and notices that Ryan’s eyes are closed, so he shuts his as well and tries imagining this string pulling at him.

“Deep breath in.” Ryan says, inhaling deeply. “And then out, and let yourself come back down.” He exhales, and Brendon peeks one eye open to see Ryan’s arms fall back down to his sides. “It’s important that you focus on your breathing. Keep it deep and slow, and also don’t strain yourself.” Ryan murmurs. “Now we’re gonna do a pose, okay? We’ll start easy.”

Brendon nods, dropping his arms down and watching Ryan. This isn’t so bad, and it is kind of relaxing if he makes himself really focus on it. With his ADHD that’s not exactly easy, but it does keep his mind off of Pete and the meeting.

“Okay,” Ryan says, exhaling again and turning to look at Brendon. After having his eyes closed for so long, the sight of Ryan’s gaze upon him makes Brendon nearly fall over. “We’ll do warrior pose, alright?” He twists, bringing his arms up and to the side, head turning away from Brendon for a moment as he stretches and then does the same movement again for the opposite side.

Brendon nods as if he knows what warrior pose is. “Yeah, okay.” He murmurs, taking his right wrist in his left hand and following Ryan’s movements.

Warrior pose turns out to be much more difficult than Ryan had made it sound, and Brendon spends a good five minutes with his calves straining and Ryan’s hands on his hips, trying to keep him steady.

“You’re doing good, just exhale and see if you can go down a little further.” Ryan murmurs, his lips dangerously close to Brendon’s ear, breath tickling his skin.

Brendon nods and lets out his breath, sinking just a little lower. He can feel his muscles begging for relief, but Ryan is so warm and close to him that he can’t bring himself to tap out. Not yet at least.

“Good, good, now we’re gonna come back up, alright?” Ryan breathes. “Slow and careful, don’t wanna pull anything.” He adds. His voice is soft and airy, and it soothes and reassures Brendon in a way he didn’t know was possible, especially while he feels like he’s about to split his pants down the middle.

Warrior pose turns into a Sun Salutation, which then morphs into a tree pose. Ryan has to help him there too, holding Brendon’s sides so he doesn’t tip over and spill out all over the floor.

“We’re gonna slowly go back to our mountain pose, okay?” Ryan murmurs, guiding Brendon back onto two feet and letting him shift to a normal stance. “Now we’ll go into Downward Dog, are you ready?”

It takes every ounce of willpower that Brendon has not to giggle at the name, and even more energy to force himself not to imagine the two of them in any more dog-like poses together. “Downward Dog, got it.” He nods, taking a breath just to try and shake his thoughts into cleaner ones.

Ryan starts by raising his arms up into the air again–Brendon has noticed that a lot of poses start with raising your arms up into the air–and then practically bends himself in half, chest flush against his legs as he touches his toes.

“Uh, I really don’t think I can do that without ripping myself in half?” Brendon squeaks, hands still hanging limply in the air.

Ryan gives a small laugh and turns his head so he can look over. “You don’t have to do it exactly like me, just stretch yourself and try and touch your toes, okay? It’s not about doing it perfectly, it’s just about doing what feels right to you.”

Brendon inhales deeply and nods, closing his eyes as he bends over. They move from the weird bent-in-half pose to a strange one where he feels like a triangle, both hands on the floor in front of his feet and ass high in the air. He silently prays that Spencer and Jon won’t walk in on them like this.

“Take a few deep breaths like this, focus on the air coming in and out of your lungs and with each exhale let one of your anxieties escape with the air.” Ryan breathes out.

Brendon turns to see the other boy is almost a perfect right angle with his palms flat on the floor and eyes closed. With each exhale he looks a little calmer, a little more at peace with himself. Nothing like the boy who had come home late last night and been chastised by Spencer.

After a few minutes of being in Downward Dog and doing deep breathing–he tried imagining that every time he let out some air, little Petes were fluttering away too–Brendon manages to get himself back up into a standing position and turns to see Ryan smiling at him, warm as the Sun streaming in through the windows. “You did really well.” He says simply.

Brendon grins and opens his mouth to politely disagree when he hears noises in the kitchen.

Ryan sighs. “That’ll be Spence and Jon.” He mutters. “Better go shower and get ready for work then, I’m due in an hour.”

Brendon turns and sees that indeed Jon is rummaging in the fridge and pulling out a couple of eggs. He looks back to Ryan. “Do you think I’m supposed to work today too?” He asks, biting his lip.

Ryan shakes his head. “Nah, you should probably just rest until you have to go see Pete.” He says, bending down to pick up the blankets on the floor and toss them back into the corner. “I’ve got to go get ready, but I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

God, Brendon hopes so. “Yeah, see you tonight.” He smiles. “And thanks for...this, too.” He waves a hand around, blushing just slightly.

Ryan smiles and nods. “If you want, we can do it again tomorrow.”

Brendon nods eagerly. “Yeah, absolutely, I’d love to!” Despite his doubts, Brendon does feel a little better. And if that has to do more with the fact that he just spent thirty minutes with Ryan touching and guiding him than the yoga itself, well, he’s not about to protest.

Ryan gives a small wave as he goes down the hall, presumably to shower—which Brendon totally isn’t going to think about just in case these pajama pants are as noticeably thin as they feel—and Brendon goes back to the kitchen.

“Morning.” He says brightly, unable to keep a goofy smile off of his face.

Jon turns from his place at the stove where he skillfully cracks an egg into a skillet one-handed. “Morning.” He smiles, voice rough from sleep. “Feeling better? How’s the head?” He asks.

Brendon raises a hand to carefully feel along his temple and nods. “Yeah, better. A bump, but it doesn’t hurt as bad.”

“Good, that’s good. Did you already eat or did you want some breakfast before Spence comes in and claims the whole damn kitchen for himself?” Jon turns back to his eggs and cracks another.

“I had some cereal, but thanks.” Brendon hums.

“Cereal? That’s all you ate?” Spencer walks in, a hand on his hip.

“Uh, well I had some juice too?” Brendon tries, biting his lip. Spencer looks a scary amount like Brendon’s mother when he’s only eaten junk food for a week.

“Jon, make the boy an omelette.” Spencer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No wonder you passed out yesterday, is that what you eat every morning?” He grabs the box of cereal, glancing at it. “Cocoa Puffs?!”

“Uh, well I don’t actually usually eat breakfast.” Brendon is slowly sinking into his seat as if maybe he can disappear from the wrath that is apparently Spencer when someone doesn’t eat a balanced meal every day.

Jon turns and shakes his head. “You’re going to give him a str–”

“I’m getting a stress headache, Jon, please feed him.” Spencer mutters, one hand rubbing at his forehead.

Jon sighs and goes back to his eggs, cracking two more into the skillet and then glancing at Brendon with a ‘What did I tell you?’ sort of look.

Brendon shrugs and smiles sheepishly, trying to look apologetic as Spencer pours himself a cup of coffee.

“So, are you ready for your meeting with Pete today?” He asks before taking a sip.

“I dunno, more ready than I was before, I guess.” Brendon says, tapping his fingers on the wood of the table. “I did yoga with Ryan this morning and that kind of helped.”

Spencer snorts and looks as if he’s nearly inhaled his coffee. “You did yoga with Ryan? And you didn’t try to strangle him?”

“What? No I didn’t try to strangle him, he was very helpful!”

Jon turns around, spatula in one hand waving dangerously. “Ryan’s tried to get us to do yoga too, don’t try and bullshit. We know how he can be.”

“Yeah, I fucking twisted my ankle after one of his little yoga sessions and _he_ got mad at _me_ because I like, fucked with his inner balance or some shit!” Spencer scowls and takes another angry sip of his coffee.

Jon nods gravely. “He takes his yoga very seriously and has no problem with dismembering anyone who gives him any grief about it.”

“Especially us.” Spencer spits.

Brendon doesn’t say anything to that, just thinks about how sweet and caring Ryan had been when they were stretching and doing poses. He wasn’t anything like this control freak monster that Jon and Spencer are describing, Brendon can’t even imagine that person.

Jon comes over and sets a plate of scrambled eggs down. “Here, eat up. Don’t wanna go see Pete on an empty stomach, it’ll just make you feel worse.” He says.

Brendon looks up, smiling gratefully. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Jon waves a hand and goes back to his own eggs.

Brendon takes a bite of his eggs and–upon finding them to be absolutely mouthwatering–devours them as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks. By the time he’s done Ryan is walking out of his room with still–drying hair and dressed in all black.

“Okay, I’m off. See you guys tonight, good luck, Brendon!” He calls as he shuts the front door.

Brendon waves and tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he realizes that he’s getting closer and closer to having to go see Pete. He tries procrastinating by talking to Jon and Spencer about anything and everything, but they have to go off to work too and then he's alone. He tries taking the world’s longest shower, but there’s only so many times you can sing “Fly Me To The Moon” to yourself and he starts getting pruney after an hour anyways. Getting dressed is an ordeal because he usually just wears jeans and a t-shirt to go work outside, maybe a hat if it’s really sunny, but he’s not sure what Pete’s expecting from him. He’s not sure anyone’s ever had a panic attack over which shade of blue dress shirt to wear, but there’s a first time for everything he supposes.

Eventually he’s clean and dressed with his hair combed and teeth brushed, anxiously tapping his foot as he sits at the edge of his bed. He’s got fifteen minutes before he has to leave and it’s eating away at him slowly. He wishes there were someone who could at least walk with him there, but he knows Spencer and Jon are busy with lunch by now and he wouldn’t know where to find Ryan, even if he were brave enough to go looking.

Finally he takes a deep breath and stands, going down the hall and to the front door. It’s not like it’s life or death—except it is—and he’s stepping outside and taking steps towards his impending doom and _fuck_ he better not pass out again. He closes his eyes and tries breathing deep like he had been doing with Ryan during yoga, but he jerks and gasps as his phone buzzes in his pocket.

_“Deep breaths, you’ll do fine. See you tonight. -RR”_

Brendon blinks and smiles softly to himself, biting his lip. Ryan’s right; he’ll do just fine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really really really just wanna thank Hannah/buttercupross for being the absolute best beta anyone could ask for

Brendon is absolutely not doing just fine.

He’d made it as far as the walkway up to the main house, but after seeing the huge mansion looming over him ominously, he’d promptly dove into the bushes next to the pathway and curled into a ball. He’s been there for what must be close to fifteen minutes by now, arms wrapped around his trembling knees. These are his bushes; some of the ones he tends to on a daily basis. The particular bush he’s hiding in has roses that are only just beginning to bloom. The sharp thorns of the flowers are stabbing into his arms and scratching his face, making his eyes water from the pain, but he can’t bring himself to care. Getting impaled in the eye by flowers still sounds more appealing than having to go talk to Pete.

He’s strongly considering army-crawling his way back out of the bushes and running home to pack his things up and disappear before anyone can notice, when he hears the sound of footsteps on gravel. He freezes instantly, holding his breath and silently begging whoever is coming to disappear.

“Uh, hello?” A voice comes, far too close for Brendon’s comfort.

Brendon squeaks and looks up, spotting a confused face through all of the leaves in his eyes. He pops up, twigs and flower petals in his hair, his cheeks hot. “Hello.” He tries, a nervous smile flitting across his lips.

There’s a tall man—giant, even; he towers above Brendon, resembling a skyscraper more than a human—with dark hair and deep blue eyes that sparkle brightly as he squints in the Sun. He’s staring down at Brendon curiously. “Uh, hello.” He smiles back, looking more than confused. “May I ask what you’re doing in the bushes?”

Brendon blinks and looks around as if he’s only just realized where he is. “O-oh, well, you see it’s a funny story actually,” He laughs, though he sounds sort of hysterical to himself. “I just-uh, I was making sure everything was growing right is all.” He’s so goddamn awful at lying it’s not even funny. After being raised by parents who absolutely did _not_ tolerate anything less than absolute honesty, it leaves a queasy anxious feeling in Brendon’s stomach to do so.

The man looks even more perplexed, but just laughs along, nodding. “Well, if there’s anything you see that’s, uh, growing wrong just let me know and I promise I’ll fix it right up. I’m the new gardener.” He beams.

The words seem to come at Brendon in slow motion, taking ages to hit his ears, but when they do it’s suddenly as if a fist has been shoved into his chest and wrapped around his heart, squeezing as hard as it possibly can. He can’t breathe, his lungs are burning from the tight feeling that’s suffocating him. “A-are you?” He chokes out.

“Yeah, I just got hired today.” The man grins, and Brendon notes that there are in fact, a pair of hedge clippers in his hands. “I’m Dallon, by the way.” He adds, shifting the tool to one hand so he can offer his free one to Brendon.

Brendon nods and watches his own hand reach out and clasp Dallon’s to shake it; it feels as though his limbs are moving on their own. _There’s already someone new to take his place._ “Brendon.” He hears himself murmur distantly.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’d like to stay around and chat, but I’ve got work to do since it’s my first day and all.” Dallon laughs cheerfully. “But I’ll see you around!” He adds before waving and walking off down the path.

Brendon watches his replacement walk away for a moment before he turns back to the mansion. It seems pointless to even go inside now, it’s obvious he’s been fired. Pete’s gone and hired a new gardener before he even let Brendon go. And really, Brendon can’t blame him; Dallon seems incredibly friendly and genuine, and hardworking too, and he’s got a smile that’s infectious. Brendon never even stood a chance. Still, maybe he’ll get some sort of severance or something; any extra money is a dire need at this point.

He swallows with some difficulty before taking an unsteady breath and steps forward, reaching out to ring the doorbell. Loud chimes sound and Brendon waits, staring at the intricately carved wooden door before him; images of different animals and fancy swirls and even what Brendon _thinks_ could be Pete riding a flying horse. After what seems like an eternity that has Brendon grinding his teeth and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the ringing stops and the large door opens, an elderly man appearing in the doorway.

“Ah, Mr. Urie.” Pete’s butler croaks out. “I’ve been told we’re to expect you. Please, come right this way.”

Brendon nods and cautiously steps inside, careful not to trip on the massive rug that’s spread across the marble floors. The mansion is just what Brendon pictures when he imagines what a filthy rich person with all the time in the world might decorate their home like. There’s a giant chandelier hanging above them, sparkling and throwing rainbow prisms across the floor and making the two roaring bronze tiger statues on either side of the front door shine. Directly in front of him is an enormous staircase that seems to go on forever, the banisters made of some sort of dark wood that looks incredibly smooth. As he follows the ancient butler, Brendon tries to focus on not throwing up. It’s all he can do to not pass out right on the floor, but he feels like vomiting all over the expensive area rug might possibly land him in even deeper trouble.

“Master Wentz,” The butler wheezes. “Your guest has arrived.”

Brendon steps slowly into the next room, blinking in surprise when he sees that they aren’t in the cluttered office he had been hired in before, but are instead in what appears to be some sort of giant media room. There’s a huge screen on the far wall that takes up the entire space that displays what looks like a car racing video game, and at least twenty different gaming systems plugged into various outlets.

“Oh, Brendon, hey!”

Brendon tears his eyes from the explosion of a crash that just took place on screen to look at Pete. The billionaire is sprawled out on a large purple beanbag chair that looks as if it might swallow him whole, the color nearly identical to the aubergine hoodie he’s wearing. A fringe of dark hair flops out over one eye beneath his hood, and Brendon’s not sure how he can even see enough of the screen to play the game with his hair blocking his vision, but he’s not brave enough to ask. Bare feet with painted black toes peak out beneath skinny jeans that are the dark blue of fresh denim that hasn’t seen a washing machine very many times. There’s a controller clasped in his hand and he’s rapidly pressing buttons– even as he glances over at Brendon.

“H-hey.” Brendon says, trying to ignore the way the blood roaring in his ears sounds frighteningly similar to the car crash noises from Pete’s game.

“So, Ryan came and told me about what happened the other day.” Pete says, eyes not leaving the screen as his car– a sparkling purple one with hotrod flames painted on the side in black-rounds a corner and smashes into a red corvette.

Brendon nods and swallows against the lump in his throat. No fucking way is he crying in front of Pete, no matter how bad his eyes are burning from tears. He’s not about to further embarrass himself by breaking down while getting fired. “Yeah-yeah, I didn’t actually-”

“He was pretty pissed and I don’t really like dealing with that kind of shit so I said I’d fix things, you know?” Pete murmurs, leaning his entire body over as he tries to pass up a blue jeep. _Do jeeps even race?_ Brendon has no idea, but he also doesn’t have any clue about racing games so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I understand.” Brendon whispers. He feels like he’s shrinking down smaller every second. Pete’s video game crashes sound like something from a goddamn war movie.

“So, I was thinking that you probably shouldn’t work in the garden anymore. I went ahead and hired this guy and his crew, cuz like, obviously the grounds are so big one person shouldn’t have to work that.” Pete laughs slightly as he mashes down on a button and his car lights up, immediately passing the person in front of him.

“Right, right of course.” Brendon’s not entirely sure Pete is even listening to him at this point, he seems so preoccupied with his game.

“So since Dallon has the gardens, I figured that you could work indoors, in the house.” Pete chirps before giving a loud whoop as he zooms past the finish line with a large number one spinning across the screen.

“I underst–wait, what?” Brendon blinks. He had to have heard wrong, he was supposed to be getting _fired_.

“We really need some more people on housekeeping, Chives isn’t getting any younger and Allyson just had her baby so the place is kind of falling apart at this point.” Pete laughs, gesturing around.

There are a few chip bags crumpled on the floor and empty soda cans surrounding Pete, but it doesn’t seem that bad to Brendon. He’s also pretty sure that the butler’s name is Alan.

“You want me to be your housekeeper?” Brendon asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah, I mean, you’re like a precious little flower fainting outside and shit, right? Probably best to keep you indoors, you can be the maid or whatever.” Pete waves a hand, tossing his controller to the floor and standing. He pushes the crumbs off of his front and nods to the door. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll work and stuff.”

Brendon flushes, not entirely sure how he feels about being called a flower and a maid all in one sentence. He’s not even sure if Pete was trying to be degrading or was just making some kind of weird joke. Either way, he’s not about to say anything for fear of actually being fired, despite his level of resentment towards the comparison. He just follows Pete down the hall and into another room where tons of uniforms are hanging and a large amount of cleaning supplies are available.

“So, whatever you need should be in here.” Pete says, pulling out his phone and clicking on some buttons. “If it’s not, just like, find it I guess? You’re in charge of the upstairs rooms and bathrooms, clean them daily, uh, you can come in at like eight?” He giggles softly at some text Brendon can’t see. “Basically just make sure that the rooms look nice in case my parents show up cuz I really don’t wanna listen to them bitchin’. I’m sure you get it.” Pete shrugs, pressing another button before looking back up at Brendon.

Brendon nods quickly, though he can’t remember the last time his parents took the time to 'bitch' at him for something as trivial as having an unclean room. Their fights were always about something terrible and tragic Brendon had done. “I understand, come in at eight, make sure everything is clean in case of a surprise visit.”

Pete grins wide, his smile seeming far too large for his face. “Yeah, you got it.” He nods. “Sweet, okay so that takes care of Ryan’s bitch fit and you won’t be like, collapsing or anything, cool.”

Brendon tries his best to keep his face neutral, but he’s not entirely sure that Pete is even really aware he’s still there, or even actually knows who he is. He seems far more focused on his phone and whoever is texting him.

“So, what should I wear?” Brendon asks.

Pete blinks. “Ah,” He looks around and snatches a hanger before snorting. It’s a stereotypical french maid outfit, fluffy skirt and all. “Well, you are the maid, right?” He smirks at Brendon.

Brendon flushes brightly, not sure if he’s more embarrassed or angry. Pete seems to be taking his job like some sort of joke instead of the source of Brendon’s income and the way he stays alive. Still, he isn’t sure if Pete’s kidding or not, so he takes the hanger. “Yeah, I’m the maid.” He mumbles.

Pete looks a little taken aback that Brendon actually took the costume, but quickly his features shift to an expression of being mildly impressed. He eyes Brendon up and down before nodding. “Alright then, work starts tomorrow.” He says, looking back down at his phone and biting his lip. “Don’t be late.” He adds before walking out of the supply closet without even offering to show Brendon out.

Brendon waits until he’s sure that Pete is gone before he glares back down at the stupid maid costume and kicks the floor. Pete isn’t the terrifying boss that he remembers, but instead appears to be a spoiled little rich boy who doesn’t know the value of a day’s work. Brendon feels like a damn idiot for stressing over their ‘meeting’ in the first place.

All he can find for shoes in the damn closet are a pair of high heels and he figures if Pete was serious about the maid outfit he’s probably expecting Brendon to go all the way with it. He grits his teeth and bends down to snatch the shoes up, hanging onto the ‘uniform’ as he walks out of the supply closet. Pete may be an asshole, but Brendon’s not going to fuck up this job too, especially after he was lucky enough to get transferred this time. He’s pretty sure that even Ryan (a.k.a Pete’s prized possession) won’t be able to save him twice.

He sighs softly as he walks back down the hall, shaking his head. At least when he worked outside, Brendon could mostly do his own thing. Pete never came to check on him or tell him what to do, and since he never complained, Brendon assumed he was doing an alright job. Now that he’s working in the house, and in a fucking Halloween costume nonetheless, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna be under Pete’s watch a little closer. Still, at least he has a job, and if that means he has to work in some humiliating outfit, well, he’ll still take it.

\---

By the time Jon and Spencer get home Brendon has hung up his ‘uniform’, tidied his room up a bit, and begun looking up tips on cleaning stuff. He’s curled up on the couch with a few magazines stacked around him, currently flipping through Good Housekeeping when the door opens.

“-ust saying that you don’t have to yell at me every single time something doesn’t go your way, especially when it’s _not my fault_.” Jon snaps as he pushes through the door, arms full of grocery sacks.

“Well, it _is_ your fault when you’re the one who spilled my hollandaise sauce all over the kitchen floor because you were too busy trying to change the radio station to pay attention to what’s around you.” Spencer huffs.

Jon just rolls his eyes. “No, it’s _not_ my fault, because you’re the one who was playing shitty music, so if I didn’t have to change it none of this would ever have happened in the first place!”

“ _Britney Spears is not shitty music!_ ” Spencer shrieks.

Brendon clears his throat and pokes his head up over the couch to look at the pair. “Hey guys.”

Job blinks and looks over before his face splits into a smile. “Hey, Brendon. How did your talk with Pete go?”

Brendon sets his magazine down and pushes the rest of them off of his lap so he can stand up. “It went...uh, good? I think?”

“You think?” Spencer asks, frowning. “What happened?”

Brendon shrugs as he follows them into the kitchen. “Well, I mean I didn’t get fired.” He says, automatically going to unpack one of the bags to help put the groceries away.

“That sounds good to me, so you’re still working the yard then?” Jon asks.

Brendon shakes his head. “No, no. Not doing that anymore.” He says vaguely, putting a bunch of fruits over in a pile so he can empty the paper bag.

“Well, what are you doing then?” Spencer asks. “And you don’t have to help us, it’s really alright, Bren.” He adds.

“I’m the new...maid?”

“The new _what_.” Jon says flatly, nearly dropping the pack of meat he has in his hands.

“Pete hired me as the new housekeeper.” Brendon says, going onto the next sack of groceries.

“Ho-”

“I’m home!” Ryan calls from the living room, kicking the door shut and interrupting whatever Jon was about to say.

“You’re early.” Spencer notes, his voice a strange mix of surprise and sharpness.

“Yeah, Pete’s been playing some weird new racing game all day so he just let me go home after I beat him.” Ryan shrugs, kicking off his shoes and unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt.

“You didn’t just stay?” Spencer asks, arching a brow.

“No, I ‘didn’t just stay’, I live here too, you know.” Ryan frowns. “Anyways, what’s new?” He asks, leaning back against the counter. “How’d your talk with Pete go, Brendon?”

Brendon jumps just slightly as he’s addressed, still not quite used to interacting with everyone this way. The past twenty-four hours have been the most he’s ever spoken to any of them in the entire time he’s been working here and it’s a little strange to be a part of the group.

“Pete made him the new housekeeper.” Jon says, his face inscrutable.

Ryan looks a little surprised, but gives a small half-smile. “Really, he did?” He asks.

Brendon nods. “Yeah, apparently he hired a new guy and his crew to work the yard and put me inside.”

Ryan snaps his fingers and nods. “Yeah, hey, that’s right I did meet someone new today. Really happy guy, ah what was his name? Derek or Dylan or something.”

“Dallon.” Brendon pipes up. “I met him too, he seems really nice.”

“Is he gonna live here?” Spencer asks as he goes back to unpacking the groceries.

Ryan shakes his head and snatches an apple up, taking a bite. “No, he said he didn’t live that far away so he was just gonna come up here for work.” He says. “We talked for a few minutes on my way back here, seems like he knows his stuff.”

Brendon nods. “Yeah, we talked for a little bit too, he was really friendly.” He beams. It’s a lot easier to like Dallon when he’s not threatening Brendon’s job security.

Ryan glances over, arching a brow. “I guess. Kind of weird, though, that he was so nice.” He mutters.

Spencer turns to look back at Ryan, a expression that Brendon can’t read in his eyes. “Anyways, I’m glad that you don’t have to do all of that work outside by yourself anymore, Brendon.” He murmurs as he starts washing a few carrots in the sink.

“Because being a part of housekeeping is better?” Jon asks, crossing his arms.

“What’s wrong with housekeeping?” Brendon frowns.

“Housekeeping is just Pete’s-”

“Do _not_ start with that shit again.” Ryan snaps, putting his half-eaten apple down.

“Housekeeping is Pete’s what, what’s wrong with housekeeping?” Brendon asks, looking around the room at anyone for an answer.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with housekeeping. You hardly have to do anything, and they’re just mad because they have to work the kitchens all day. It’s why they come home so bitchy.” Ryan says, pushing up off of the counter.

Spencer just shakes his head and goes back to washing his carrots, though Brendon notes the muscle in his jaw is clenched and he’s scrubbing at the vegetables quite violently.

“I’m going to go change and take a nap.” Ryan says. “Don’t try and fill his head with all that bullshit, you’ll just scare him.” He adds, glaring at Spencer before going down the hall.

Once he’s gone, Brendon turns to Jon. “What’s wrong with being a housekeeper?”

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Housekeeping is just Pete’s bitches. It’s people that Pete thinks are hot and he doesn’t really give two shits what they do as long as he thinks they look good doing it. Ryan works housekeeping though so he’s super defensive about it, gets all pissy when we bring it up.”

“Why?” Brendon asks, biting his lip. He’s not actually sure he wants to know the answer.

“Because he knows that we’re right, and he also knows that we know exactly what goes on in that house.” Spencer grits his teeth.

“What goes on?” They’re both making it sound like some horrible underground secret club that’s going to eat Brendon alive.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jon says softly, ruffling Brendon’s hair. “You just keep your nose clean and do your job and nothing bad will happen, okay?”

Brendon wants to argue but the look in Jon’s eyes tells him to stay quiet.

“Dinner’s gonna be about an hour, why don’t you go rest up too?” Spencer says, setting his carrots on a cutting board and turning to look at Brendon. “I’m not sure you’re still at a hundred percent from yesterday, I’ll get Jon to bring you some water, alright?”

Spencer’s expression is almost pained and Brendon can’t bring himself to protest so he just nods. “Yeah, okay.” He murmurs.

As he goes back to sit on the couch and read his magazines, thoughts of work the next day and whatever mysterious, awful things that seem to happen in the mansion flip through his head. He can’t really even focus on The 8 Dirtiest Places In the House, but he’s got nothing to do except wait and see what comes. He sighs. It’s going to be a long night.


	6. Chapter 6

That night Brendon spends only a small amount of time sleeping. When he isn’t staring up at the ceiling playing scenarios in his head of what might happen to him the next morning-each one more terrifying than the one before it-nightmares plague every hellish moment that his eyes are closed. Jon’s vague and sinister mentions of what goes on in the Wentz mansion end up giving Brendon the worst anxiety-induced stomach ache he’s ever had; all he can think about is the unrelenting morning that’s headed his way and the horrors it could bring.

By the time the bright Moonlight shining through his window begins to dim and warp the shadows across Brendon’s wall as it gives way to the Sun, he’s a wreck. Upon inspecting himself in the mirror before going to take a shower, Brendon notes that the usual light shadows of circles under his eyes are dark enough to look like bruises and his is skin seems marginally paler than it should, especially for someone who used to constantly work outdoors. He desperately hopes that Pete won’t think he looks sick– not on his first day.

The thought of his employer makes Brendon’s skin crawl and he shudders, shaking his head. Quickly, he goes to turn on the shower, not having to wait long for the steam to rise and fill the room. As long as he gets his job done and keeps his nose clean like Jon said, he should be fine. Jon said he would be fine.

The hot water is enough to distract him for a little bit, soothing his tired muscles and making his eyes heavy, the scent of his lavender shampoo a small comfort. It’s the same stuff he always used back at his parent’s house when he shared a bathroom with his sisters, and the smell makes his chest pang with nostalgia. Before any homesick-esque thoughts can creep into his mind, Brendon rinses the suds from his hair and turns the water off. After rubbing a towel over his head and doing a half-assed job of drying off the rest of his body, he resigns himself to getting ready for the day.

The godawful costume is still hanging on his door, all lace and frills, almost teasing him from its spot above him. Brendon grits his teeth and shakes his head, sighing and snatching the outfit down and glaring at it for a moment before dropping the towel around his waist and beginning to get dressed. Putting it on proves to be a far more difficult task than he’d first imagined it would be; the uniform is actually a lot less cheap than he’d first assumed. It isn’t just some knock-off Halloween costume, but proves to be a genuine ensemble with a million different pieces. The bodice is made of some soft fabric Brendon can’t help but rub against his cheek for a moment, a little shocked. Getting the dress on is the easiest part, as he can just pull that over his head; the rest of it is what gives him the most difficulty. By the time he’s finished and looking at himself in the full-length mirror on the door of his wardrobe, nearly an hour has passed. It’s an hour wasted, too, because he looks absolutely fucking ridiculous.

The dress is far too short, barely covering his ass and making it stick out beneath the ruffled skirt that bounces with every movement he makes. He keeps having to tug it down, praying that no one will notice he’s not wearing any underwear since the goddamn fishnet stockings that came with everything refused to have boxers stuffed into them. There’s a little apron he had trouble tying around his waist that he isn’t entirely sure has a purpose as it’s much too small to actually protect him from any stains, and looking at himself from behind he can see the bow he tried to make around his waist is pathetic at best. It doesn’t help that he’s got absolutely no cleavage, so the front of the dress dips lower than he’s sure it would on someone who actually has breasts. To top it all off, there’s a choker with white lace and a little black bow that matches a pair of cuffs for his wrists, and a stupid frilly headband that sits in his hair. Not to mention the goddamn high heels that he absolutely can  _not_ walk in without tripping over himself; he’s a disaster waiting to happen and all he can do is hope that he still has a job by the end of the day.

A glance at his phone tells Brendon that he’s got thirty minutes before he’s got to go, but he can hear the sounds of people moving outside of his door and the idea of approaching any of his newfound friends looking like this makes him want to throw up and cry all at once. He knows he’ll have to face them sooner or later, though, and before he can stop himself he’s walking down the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Morning, Brend-what the _fuck_ are you wearing?” Jon asks, very nearly dropping the plate of pancakes in his hands.

Brendon can feel his cheeks flaming bright red, but he clears his throat and steadies himself. “Just my uniform.”

“Your _what_?” Jon’s voice raises a good two octaves and Brendon thinks he really should try and save that plate of pancakes before they end up on the floor surrounded by shards of glass.

“What is all of this goddamn yelling, I’m going to get a str-oh my.” Spencer quite literally stops in his tracks as he enters the room, staring at Brendon with wide blue eyes that hide none of his surprise. “Brendon, honey, I know that those magazines probably had a lot of pictures of pretty girls in outfits like that, but you know that won’t actually help with the cleaning part, right?”

“He says it’s his uniform.” Jon mutters darkly, setting the plate down on the counter a little harder than Brendon was expecting.

“What? That’s absurd, Brendon, you don’t have to wear that; I’m sure even if Pete said you did he was only joking.” Spencer says quickly.

Brendon shakes his head. “I don’t care.” He says simply. It’s not entirely true, he very much cares and would rather wear almost anything besides what he’s in at this moment, but the idea of letting Pete win-and it feels like if he changes, Pete _is_ winning-makes Brendon’s blood boil and he’d rather bear the humiliation of wearing the outfit rather than the humiliation of Pete thinking he can’t take whatever is thrown at him.

Spencer’s eyes flick over to Jon, who has an unreadable expression on his face, and the two walk out of the room for a moment, going into the hall. Brendon can hear whispers, Jon’s a little louder than Spencer’s.

“-etting out of hand, it’s only his first day!” Jon hisses.

Brendon frowns, trying to hear more, but after a minute the two return. Jon looks less than pleased, but Spencer just walks over and eyes Brendon up and down.

“Well, if you’re going to do this, whatever your reasons, you’ve got to do it right.” He says. “Turn around.”

Brendon flushes and glances at Jon before he twists around and faces the kitchen cabinets. He can feel Spencer behind him, tugging at different parts of the dress and muttering to himself, and after retying Brendon’s apron he spins the other boy back around.

“There. That’s better.” He murmurs. “Now, if Pete gives you any shit, you go and find Ryan, alright? Just because you’re doing…” He waves a hand vaguely in Brendon’s direction. “Whatever you’re doing, doesn’t mean that anyone gets to take advantage of you, understand?”

Brendon nods quickly.

“Good boy.” Spencer smiles, patting his cheek. “Now let Jon make you some breakfast before you go, and remember, if you need us, we’re both in the kitchens. Ask Alan if you can’t find us, okay?”

Brendon nods again, smiling in spite of everything. It makes his stomach feel just a little less queasy to think of having people in the main house watching out for him; at least work will be a lot less lonely than it was before.

\---

After breakfast-which consisted of nearly six pancakes, two apples, and a tall glass of juice since Spencer _insisted_ that the only way Brendon was going to get any work done was on a full stomach-Brendon begins making his way to the mansion. He hadn’t seen Ryan at all that morning; apparently the brunet had gone into work early, and despite the fact that Brendon almost-sort-of wishes that he’d gotten to see the older boy before work, it seems like a small gift in reality because at least he didn’t have to face Ryan seeing him dressed like some frat boy’s unoriginal wet dream.

As he walks, high heels clutched in one hand seeing as he _knows_ he wouldn’t make it to the main house without breaking one or both ankles on the way if he wore them, Brendon catches sight of the new yardmen working around him. Some are trimming the hedges that surround the entire manor, tall and towering above them making the place seem isolated, almost like they’re trapped in the center of a labyrinth. Others are working on the large topiaries that are scattered across the lawn, giant dragons roaring leaves out into the sky and in the center, a man who looks strangely close to one well-known billionaire riding a tiger. As he nears the front door, Brendon also spots Dallon kneeled in the dirt, tending to a patch of bright pink flowers.

Quickly he ducks down, praying that he can sneak past the new gardener and into the mansion without being spotted. He hits his knees and begins crawling quietly down the path, eyes squeezed shut as if by making Dallon unseen, he himself won’t be visible to the new yard worker.

“Hey, Brendon, right?”

Brendon silently shouts every single swear word he knows and a few he makes up on the spot in his head. Slowly his eyes peek open and he catches sight of Dallon walking over, peering down curiously at him.

“What’s, uh, going on?” He asks.

Brendon internally curses himself, Pete, Pete’s parents, and the entire rest of the world for good measure as he stands and brushes his skirt off. “Nothing, really, I just dropped my...shoe.” He lies.

Dallon looks like he doesn’t believe Brendon for a second, but just nods. “That’s a nice-er-outfit.”

“It’s my uniform, I work in the main house for Pete.” Brendon says, like crossdressing for work is an everyday occurrence in the average person’s life.

Dallon squints his eyes and gives Brendon a once over before nodding. “Well, that’s...interesting.” He says, tugging a large padded glove off of his hand to run his fingers through his hair. “I’m glad I don’t have a uniform.” He laughs. “Imagine doing yard work in that.”

Brendon gives a small grin. Bless Dallon for not making this as disgustingly awkward as it could be.“This thing would be torn apart before lunchtime.” He agrees.

Dallon laughs again, the sound full and happy as he pulls his glove back on. “You’re probably right.” He nods. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to these petunias, but if you catch yourself having some down time, feel free to come find me.”

Brendon blushes only just slightly, and he hopes Dallon will think he’s just getting a little warm. “Yeah, alright. See you around.” He waves, turning to head back for the mansion and praying that Dallon isn’t watching him go because he can just feel that goddamn skirt flouncing around his basically naked ass.

Once he reaches the front door, Brendon’s not sure if he should just walk in or not. He can’t imagine Ryan ringing the doorbell every day to be let in, but just waltzing inside like he owns the place seems far too casual. He settles for lightly knocking on the door and waiting again, shifting his weight back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet.

The butler, Alan, answers and nods to Brendon, taking a step back to let him in. “Good morning, Mr. Urie.” He says softly.

“Good morning.” Brendon murmurs, carefully stepping inside.

“I believe Master Wentz wished for you to begin in the East wing upstairs. He’s informed me that you may have an hour for lunch at noon, and may return to your home to eat if you wish.” The butler seems unsurprised by Brendon’s attire, not even blinking at the almost non-existent skirt or the copious amounts of lace.

Brendon nods. “Thank you.”

Alan nods and gestures at the staircase, which Brendon quickly rushes for, keeping one hand behind him as he runs up the steps to keep from flashing the elderly man below him.

With only a small amount of difficulty, Brendon’s able to locate the supply closet that Pete had showed him yesterday. There really is everything he could imagine needing to clean the upstairs, from toilet brushes to six different kinds of mops to what looks like a very expensive variety of sprays for cleaning counters and tile with. Without much hesitation, Brendon scoops up an armful of supplies and gets to work.

\---

By the time lunch comes around, Brendon is aching in places he didn’t even know existed. It’s been nearly four hours and he’s only just finished half of the East wing, which so far includes but is not limited to 19 bedrooms where he dusts all of the furniture, wipes down the mirrors, straightens up the bedcovers, vacuums, and pulls the curtains open, 27 bathrooms that he has to clean every toilet, bathtub, and shower in, sweep and mop the floors, wipe down counters and sinks, and put fresh towels in, and even 3 different media rooms almost identical to the one he met Pete in yesterday where half-full chip bags and empty soda cans litter the floor, and crumbs are found on every surface. His knees ache and his fingers are so stiff they feel like they’ll never bend again.

Once noon hits, Brendon gives a soft sigh of relief and pushes himself up off of bathroom #28 where he’s been scrubbing at the same strange green stain for nearly fifteen minutes. His joints pop and creak, and the thought of walking all the way back home to eat and then come back makes Brendon’s calves scream in protest, so he opts for going to find Spencer and Jon in the kitchens to pathetically beg for food.

After searching for what feels like hours, Alan kindly directs him towards the kitchens where Brendon finds his friends in the midst of a heated argument.

“Oh, no sir! It is my turn for radio control, you’ve had it all morning!” Jon cries. “I’m sick of your trash noise!”

“It’s _Britney, bitch_!” Spencer shouts, slamming a ladle down into a pot of soup that splashes across the stove.

“I don’t care if it’s the fucking queen of England herself, it fucking sucks! And it’s _my turn_!” Jon yells back.

“I will give you control of that radio over my dead body, Jonathan Walker.” Spencer hisses.

“That’s fine with me!” Jon scoffs.

Brendon takes a step in and clears his throat, carefully pushing the front of his skirt down without thinking and smoothing it.

Spencer and Jon both turn at the same time, surprise flashing across their faces.

“Brendon! Is everything okay? How is work going, has anyone given you any trouble?” Spencer asks quickly.

Brendon shakes his head. “No, no, I’m okay. Tired, and a little sore, but okay. It’s just lunchtime and I didn’t wanna go back home so I was wondering if you had like, stuff I could make a sandwich with or something?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Boy comes into our kitchen and asks for a sandwich.” He says flatly.

“A sandwich.” Spencer shakes his head, looking as if Brendon has come in and demanded each of their firstborn.

Brendon blushes. “I mean, I can just run back home really quick if it’s too much trouble-”

“Shut up, Brendon.” Spencer says, pointing to a stool. “Sit down, I’ll make you lunch. And not a sandwich, fuck. You like fish?” He asks, turning.

Brendon nods quickly and plops down on the stool, setting his heels down next to his feet before carefully crossing his ankles and spreading the skirt around his knees as best he can. “I like fish.”

“Good. A goddamn sandwich; comes into my kitchen and asks for a sandwich.” Spencer shakes his head, going back to the stove.

As Spencer begins making lunch, Brendon looks around the kitchen curiously. It’s cluttered with fresh vegetables that are scattered across the counters and different utensils laying around. The stove is a mess of pots and pans that steam and bubble, each sending a different smell into the air, and next to the sink dishes are piled up. Yet, despite the jumble of things found everywhere, the place isn’t really a mess. It’s just well stocked and used, both Jon and Spencer seem to have no trouble finding anything at all.

The sound of footsteps echoes on the tile and Brendon turns to see Ryan walking into the room, hair slightly disheveled and cheeks flushed. One of the buttons on his shirt is done up wrong, making his collar crooked.

“Pete’s awake.” The older boy says, looking over at Jon, who’s busy peeling potatoes.

“We’ll have lunch ready in a few minutes.” Spencer says, not even turning to look back as he stirs one pot that’s almost bubbling over.

Ryan nods and his eyes flick around the room for a moment before they settle on Brendon, widening in surprise. “What are you doing in here, are you alright? What the hell are you wearing?” His voice comes out a little breathy, and Brendon’s not sure if it’s because he’s surprised or winded.

“It’s his _uniform_.” Jon spits, tossing a bare potato into a bowl.

“ _What_? Did Pete put you up to this?” Ryan asks, turning back to Brendon. His cheeks seem a little darker than they were before. “I can go talk to him, he’s such a fucking dick sometimes, you don’t have to do this.”

Brendon shakes his head. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“We already tried talking to him about it.” Spencer explains, leaning down to pull a pan out of the oven, heat quickly enveloping the room. “He says he wants to.”

Ryan frowns and arches a brow at Brendon, staring for a long moment with an unreadable expression that makes the younger boy squirm slightly in his seat. “Alright.” He says finally. “If you’re sure, but just... don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

Brendon nods, and he can’t help but catch Jon roll his eyes and shake his head as he tosses another potato into the bowl.

“Here, Brendon, eat up. You only have a few more minutes.” Spencer says, setting a plate down in front of him. “Tell Pete that we’ll have it out in five.” He adds to Ryan.

Ryan nods, going back for the door. “Yeah, I’ll see you guys at home.” He murmurs, hand catching the doorframe as he turns to look back at Brendon, who pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. The two stare at each other for a long while, but eventually Ryan just shakes his head and walks out the door without saying a word.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some Brallon in this chapter, just lowkey. If you don't like it, no worries; Ryden is endgame of course

Brendon grits his teeth and holds his breath as he scrubs viciously at the tile floor of Pete’s bathroom. Whatever the sticky orange substance that he’d found there this morning was, it had left a dark stain the size of a dinner plate behind that refused to go away no matter how ferociously Brendon attacked it. After nearly an hour of trying to remove it this morning, he'd only gotten a painful cramp in his hand for his efforts and had given up, going around the rest of the house to do his duties. Once he’d finished cleaning what he’d been assigned for the day, though, he came right back to this bathroom to get that goddamn orange blotch out. He’s been knelt on the floor for hours now, almost bent in half with his face so close to the once white tile that the smell of cleaning solution makes his head throb. His right shoulder aches from the force he’s using to scrub at the blemish and he’s sure he’ll feel it tomorrow, but it’s been nearly a month since he began working as Pete’s maid and he hasn’t gotten any complaints yet; this infuriating blight on the bathroom floor isn’t going to be the cause of any sudden grievances now.

After another thirty minutes, Brendon finally gives in. He’s made some progress; what was once a bright, ugly orange on the stark white tile had now been reduced to a light peach; he’ll just have to come back tomorrow and work on it some more. Pushing himself up and gripping the edge of the tub for support, Brendon stands and winces. Not only does his back feel like it’s been snapped in half, but his feet hurt so bad that Brendon has to check to make sure they aren’t bleeding.

Spencer had given him some lessons on walking in high heels, knowing how to do so from having sisters—or so he claimed—and Brendon had toddled along beside him trying to mimic the graceful way the cook strutted across the kitchen floor. Yet, despite taking an entire afternoon one Saturday to try and learn how to at least move in the heels without breaking his ankles, the most Brendon could do was make it across the hallways from bedroom to bedroom as he cleaned. As soon as he could, he’d take off the shoes when he was sure Pete couldn’t see him and only put them back on when there was a chance he might run into the billionaire.

Even so, every evening when Brendon was finished with his work and it was time to go home, his entire lower half ached. Walking in heels didn’t only use his feet, it took his entire calf and thigh muscles to get himself from point A to point B in the godforsaken things.

Now is no different, and Brendon looks around the bathroom, seriously considering just sleeping in the tub so he doesn’t have to make the walk home. The idea of Pete coming in during the middle of the night to use the toilet makes Brendon actually want to throw up, though, so he just scoops up the stain-remover and his scrubbing brush and ever-so-slowly makes his way towards the supply closet to put everything away. Every step makes him wince and by the time he’s headed down the hall to the stairs, hot tears are making his eyes burn from the pain.

“Pete, fuck.” A voice comes from around the corner. “Can’t we at least go to your room?”

Brendon freezes and listens carefully; that voice sounds familiar.

“Come on, I know you totally have a thing for getting caught.” Pete’s voice whispers, albeit very loudly.

“Not by your ancient butler, I don’t.”

Brendon’s heart flies into his throat and he feels sick, his stomach churning and threatening to push up the spaghetti Spencer had made him for lunch; that’s Ryan’s voice. He and Pete must be around the corner—doing God knows what. Brendon carefully lifts one throbbing foot to turn around and go the other way when he hears Pete again.

“What about getting caught by that little maid I hired?” He hums. “He’s got an ass for _days_ , don’t you think?”

Brendon quickly reaches out and clutches at the wall, swallowing hard at the lump in his throat.

“What about him?” Ryan’s voice is hard.

“Come on, Ryro.” Pete coos. “Don’t act like you don’t stare too; we all do. Kid’s fucking begging for the attention, prancing around in his little skirt and all that. And have you _seen_ his fucking mouth? Don’t even try to tell me you don’t-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Ryan snaps, his voice an angry hiss. “I don’t. You shouldn’t either, leave him alone.”

“Jealous?” Pete gives a quiet, mocking laugh. “You know you’re the only one for me, Ross, don’t worry.”

“I better be.” Ryan mutters. “God knows what kind of diseases you’d pick up.”

It’s beyond enough for Brendon to hear. There could be more, but he has no idea because he quickly stumbles down the hallway in the opposite direction of the pair behind him, ignoring the way his feet burn and sting all at once. The stairs were a daunting thought a few minutes ago, but after the conversation he’s overheard Brendon would go down a hill of jagged rocks barefoot just to get out of this house. Tears stream down his cheeks and blur his vision as he sprints out the front door and down the walkway, and before he can register that he should probably slow down before he trips, Brendon’s spilling out across the path with a loud cry. The high heels go flying off of his feet, but he can’t even bring himself to care as he gives a frustrated noise and pushes himself up to inspect the damage.

“Brendon? Oh my god, what _happened_?”

Brendon looks up, quickly wiping at his cheeks. Dallon is running towards him, dropping a rake as he kneels down next to Brendon.

“I just—I just fell, I was running and then the rocks— and my _shoes_ — “ Brendon cries, breath coming in hysterical little gasps, even as he tries to steady himself and smooth down his skirt. He feels dizzy and sick, and he can’t get Pete’s fucking voice out of his head.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Dallon soothes quickly. “We’re gonna get you home, alright? Can you walk?” He asks, gently picking up Brendon’s foot in his hands and frowning. “This really doesn't look good.”

There’s ragged tears in the stockings all across his feet and legs and Brendon notes that his knee is scraped and bleeding. “It’s okay.” He hiccups, shaking his head and reaching over to pick up the ruffled headband that must have fallen from his hair.

Dallon looks up, his eyes meeting Brendon’s and for a moment there’s just deep, dark blue and nothing else. “I really think you should get this checked out. Let me at least walk you home, okay?” He murmurs.

Brendon can feel his cheeks heating up and he hopes that Dallon won’t notice the pink tint to his skin in the deep blue of the evening as the Sun sets. “O-okay.” He breathes.

Dallon flashes him a quick smile and nods, pushing up off of the ground and brushing his palms on his pants before offering a hand down to Brendon.

Giving a small smile back, Brendon takes the hand and pulls himself up only to have searing pain shoot from his toes up his calves and to the back of his thighs. His knees buckle beneath him before he can even try to straighten up and he’s crashing back down in an instant.

“Hey, woah, woah!” Dallon cries, deftly catching Brendon in his arms before he can hit the ground. “I’ve got you.”

Brendon blinks in surprise and his arms automatically go to link around Dallon’s neck. He’s cradled flush against the gardener’s chest; one of Dallon’s arms is hooked beneath his still-bleeding knees and the other is behind his back, holding him tight.

“Thanks.” Brendon breathes, feeling the blush that had only just disappeared from his cheeks return with a vengeance.

A crooked half-smile quirks up one side of Dallon’s face and he nods. “Don’t even worry about it. Let’s get you home, okay?”

\---

“What _happened to you_!?” Spencer screeches from the front doorway.

“I just fell is all.” Brendon mumbles sheepishly, moving to hide his face slightly in Dallon’s chest.

“I think he’s okay, nothing seems broken at least.” Dallon tries, shooting Spencer a hopeful smile.

“He’s covered in dirt and blood!” Spencer cries, not at all subdued by Dallon’s charm. “Get inside, come on, get in here, get _in here_ —Jon! Jon, get the first aid kit!”

Dallon steps carefully over the threshold with Brendon still secured tight in his arms. He follows Spencer, who is muttering to himself things Brendon can’t quite make out, but he catches “motherfucking Pete” and “-boy will be the end of me”.

Spencer turns to glance back at Brendon and frowns, shaking his head and continuing with his mutters as they go down the hall and into the kitchen. Dinner was obviously already in the making as a pan is spitting out grease on the stove and a number of chopped vegetables lay on a cutting board.

“Just put him on the counter.” Spencer says, pointing to one of the only clear spots available next to the sink.

Dallon nods and carefully sets Brendon on the countertop, looking around in slight awe. “So, you’re the cook then?” He asks, pushing his hands into the pockets of his dirty jeans.

“One of them.” Spencer mumbles, turning the faucet on and beginning to wash his hands. “Might as well be the only one as useless as— _Jon_ , where is that kit?” He yells, turning his head over his shoulder.

“Here, here, I’m coming.” Jon grumbles, walking in. “What, did you slice your finger again? I’ve told you a million times not to go so damn fast, but you—shit! Brendon, are you okay?”

Brendon nods quickly. “I’m okay.”

“Just some scrapes and a little swelling.” Dallon supplies, looking as if he’s not quite sure what to do with himself now that Brendon has somewhere he can be besides in the worker’s arms.

Jon frowns and walks over, setting the first aid kit on the counter next to Brendon and looking him over. “What happened to you?”

Brendon bites his lip, cheeks flushing and eyes burning as he remembers Pete and Ryan’s voices. He quickly shakes his head, clutching at the edge of the countertop so hard his knuckles turn white. “I just fell.” He whispers. “It was those fucking shoes.”

“I told you to just stop wearing them.” Spencer says flatly as he comes over and begins to rummage through the box of supplies.

“I can’t, Pete will get mad.” Brendon mumbles, letting Jon help him get the ruined stockings off.

Dallon gives a low whistle and shakes his head. “You really should stop wearing them if that’s what they do to you.” He says, staring down at the mess of swollen and blistered flesh that's supposed to be Brendon’s feet.

Spencer looks over and there’s a fire in his eyes that makes Brendon scoot back just a little. “No more heels.”

“But–”

“Wear tennis shoes to work, stay barefoot inside, if you think Pete’s going to be around you can put them back on. I’m not having you mutilate yourself just for that asshole.” Spencer’s voice leaves no room to argue and Brendon nods reluctantly.

“Seriously, Bren, he’s not worth it.” Jon mutters as he grabs a rag and begins gingerly wiping off the blood and dirt on Brendon’s skin. After dabbing at Brendon’s knee with antiseptic that stings and makes Brendon hiss, and then placing bandages over all of the scrapes, Jon stands and pats Brendon’s thigh. “You’re all patched up; I think you’ll survive this one.” He grins. “But I’d probably stay off your feet for the night if I were you.”

Just then, the front door swings open and falls shut as Ryan walks in. His hair is sticking up all over the place and his shirt isn’t even buttoned, it’s just hanging open leaving his chest and abdomen bare. There’s a few bruises visible on his stomach and around his hips and Brendon has to make himself stay sitting upright so he doesn’t crash down onto the kitchen floor.

“Sorry I’m late.” He says, sounding slightly winded. His eyes flick over to Dallon and he frowns just slightly, so subtle that Brendon’s not sure if he’s imagining it or not. “I didn’t know we had guests.”

There’s a beat of silence and Brendon sees that Spencer is glaring at Ryan, bright blue eyes cold.

“I guess I’ll be going now, then.” Dallon says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Spencer says quickly, expression instantly switching from livid to welcoming as he looks over at Dallon with a wide smile. “Brendon probably couldn’t have gotten home without you, the least we can do to thank you is feed you.”

Dallon’s eyes widen just slightly in surprise. “Really? Thank you, I’d love to stay.”

“What are we having?” Brendon asks, noting that Ryan is staring at Spencer with his mouth hanging open and eyes so wide they look like they might just fall out of his head.

“Salmon with vegetables and roasted potatoes–fuck!” Spencer cries, rushing over to the stove where his pan has begun to spill smoke up into the air.

Jon snickers to himself, trying to disguise the noise as a cough, though he winks at Brendon.

“I heard that, Jon Walker, if you’re going to be an ass you can finish dinner.” Spencer calls as he switches the pan to a different burner and waves a dish towel at the accumulating smoke.

“Ah, not to be an inconvenience,” Dallon says softly, his face slightly pained as he peers over at Spencer. “But I’m a vegetarian.”

Spencer nods, not even looking back. He’s too busy scraping burned asparagus out of the pan and angrily tossing it into the trash. “No problem, we have leftover vegetarian lasagna in the fridge.”

Dallon nods, looking relieved and grateful all at once and Brendon shoots him a reassuring smile.

“I used to be vegetarian too, but my parents refused to buy anything that didn’t use to breathe so I eventually had to give up.” He says with a shrug.

Dallon gives a small laugh. “I totally understand. When I was younger I had to save up my own money to get food because my parents thought that being vegetarian was insulting God by not using animals as He’d intended.”

Brendon’s eyes grow wide and his chest feels tighter, like his body may explode. “My parents were like that too.” He whispers.

“We all had shitty parents, what’s new?” Ryan mutters, crossing his arms.

“Go clean up, you don’t eat unless you’re actually dressed.” Spencer orders, giving Ryan a look that Brendon can’t read, but makes him shudder all the same.

“Mormon?” Dallon asks.

“I’m sorry?” Brendon turns back, shaking his head a little and looking up at the gardener.

“Was your family Mormon?” Dallon clarifies. “Mine was, and the way you talked, yours sounded like they may be too.”

“Oh yeah—yeah, mine was, too.” Brendon murmurs, forcing himself to not think about the way his parents had made everything about God and what He wanted, and how if Brendon even thought about stepping out of line he was going straight to Hell.

Dallon seems to notice that he crossed some sort of invisible line and doesn’t mention anything else about families. “You want help down?” He asks instead. “I can take you to the table.”

“Why can’t he just walk?” Ryan asks, frowning as he looks over at Brendon. “What happened? Why are you all bandaged?”

Brendon’s face flushes and he just shakes his head as Dallon pulls him back up into his arms. “I fell.” He mumbles, voice slightly muffled by Dallon’s shoulder.

“Fell? You look like you got beat up.” Ryan exclaims.

Spencer turns and points down the hall with a wooden spoon. “Go _change_.” He growls.

Ryan looks incredulously at his friend first, switching his gaze to Jon and then Brendon before shaking his head and stalking off. Brendon hears him whisper, “What’d _I_  do?”.

\---

Dinner is as good as it always is when Spencer cooks, and Brendon finds that he quite likes having Dallon at the table with them. He and Jon briefly talk about music, and Spencer promises to share recipes with him in exchange for making sure that any of the topiaries based off Pete’s likeness stay far, _far_ away from their house. The only person who seems to have any problem with Dallon is Ryan, who stays silent for most of dinner, only giving short responses when spoken to and eventually just getting up and going to his room. Brendon bites his lip as he watches Ryan go, feeling guilty and wronged all at once, but he’s quickly distracted by Dallon asking about his guitar and forgets about his problems altogether.

“Anyone want seconds?” Spencer asks, offering the still-warm pan of brownies up.

“If I had any room in my stomach I would.” Dallon laughs, pushing back his chair. “But I really should be getting home; work tomorrow and I’ve got to get up early so I can get fertilizer.”

“I can wrap some up to take with you.” Spencer offers.

“Spence, he wants to go, let him leave.” Jon teases. “I’m sure someone else will come along to worship your cooking...someday.”

Spencer huffs and rolls his eyes, flipping Jon off, but nodding. “Alright, alright. Bren, why don’t you walk him out? Jon, come help with the dishes.”

Brendon nods and pushes himself up, waving a hand as Dallon begins to protest. “I can walk you to the front door, I won’t break.” He promises as Jon takes up whining at Spencer about having to always do the dishes.

“You can do them yourself if you’re going to be a baby about it.” Spencer threatens, and Jon just sighs, sluggishly dragging himself to the kitchen.

“They’re really something else.” Dallon chuckles as he helps Brendon stand, keeping one hand on his arm as they walk to the door.

“Yeah, they’re basically married.” Brendon says. “They just don’t know it yet.”

“Dinner was really great, thank you for having me.” Dallon smiles. "Tell Spencer thank you too, and tell Jon if he ever wants to ‘jam together’ I’m free on weekends.”

Brendon laughs. “I’ll pass along the message.” He promises, opening the front door.

“See you later then.” Dallon waves, stepping out onto the porch and turning to go.

“Bye.” Brendon murmurs, tugging at his bottom lip with his teeth. “Dallon? Uhm, just— well, thank you.” He says, darting forward to press a kiss to Dallon’s cheek before quickly shutting the door and leaning back against it, eyes wide and face the color of the tomatoes Spencer had just been hacking at a few hours ago.

“Well, well,” Jon smirks from his place sprawled out on the couch. “Looks like we’ve got a little casanova on our hands.”

Brendon squeaks and shakes his head, running off to his room despite the way his feet still ache and burn with each step. He doesn’t even notice Ryan glaring out the window at Dallon’s retreating form.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long, but I hope you like it!

Warm, radiant Sunlight falling across his face is what wakes Brendon the next morning. As he slowly blinks up at the ceiling, he’s surprised to find that he isn’t dreading the thought of getting out of bed; the usual threats and bribes he tries to persuade himself with each morning don’t even begin to cross his mind. He simply pushes his covers back and sits up, feet hanging off the edge of his full-size mattress as he smiles to himself. He had dreams about tall boys that danced with him and braided flowers in his hair and kissed him so sweet, even now he thinks he can taste honeysuckle on his tongue.

It isn’t that he has a crush on Dallon or anything—that’s ridiculous, they’re only friends; he just forgot how nice it is to have someone look at him like he’s an actual _person_ rather than the personification of sin, or just a piece of ass. And it doesn’t hurt that Dallon has a smile that could light up the entirety of New York City and eyes the color of the sky after a storm.

Standing and stretching with a small yawn, Brendon notes that his room seems lighter, the colors more vivid—as vivid as brown and beige can get, that is—and he can't help but feel a little lighter too. His feet don't even hurt that bad anymore; he can wiggle his toes with only a tiny ache. As he observes the slow illumination of his room, he hears soft music out in the living room and pulls on some shorts before padding down the hall.

“Morning, Ryan.” He smiles, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms as he watches the boy in the middle of the living room stretching and exhaling, eyes closed.

Ryan looks up in surprise, almost tipping over and ruining his gate pose. His expression shifts from stunned to annoyed as his chestnut eyes land on Brendon. After a moment, he gives a short nod.

“Mind if I join you?” Brendon asks, already walking over and stepping carefully around Ryan as he shifts into a Sun salutation.

Since the the morning of Brendon’s first day as Pete’s maid, he’s been waking up early to do yoga with Ryan pretty regularly, if not every morning. He finds that the exercise helps keep the butterflies in his stomach caged before going to work, and the little talks he gets to have with Ryan between sets keeps the butterflies from morphing into angry wasps while he’s _at_ work.

“Actually,” Ryan says flatly, “I’m done for today.”

Brendon, already bending over to grab a blanket, freezes. He straightens and turns, the deep red fabric limp in his clenched fist.

“Oh.” He says, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Well, that’s okay. I should probably be getting ready for work anyways.”

Ryan nods, picking his things up and shoving them into the corner. Despite having just finished a long stretch, his muscles look terribly tense to Brendon.

“So, um, see you at dinner then?” He tries, tugging his lower lip back and forth between his teeth.

Ryan shrugs. “Maybe. Bringing your boyfriend again?”

Brendon stills, eyes widening a fraction and his fist tightening, the folds of the blanket making his palm sweaty. “He’s not—” He tries to swallow the rock-like lump forming in his throat. “He’s not my boyfriend.” He looks down at the blanket in his clammy hands, trying to ignore the pounding of blood in his ears.

Ryan snorts, shaking his head as he stands again. “Yeah, alright. If you say so.” He rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his slightly sweaty hair as he turns his back on Brendon and heads for his room. “Should probably get tested before you guys do anything!” He calls over his shoulder before slamming his door shut.

Brendon flinches at the noise and drops the blanket next to him as hot tears begin to run down his cheeks. It isn’t like he’s not used to the taunts and insults, but he thought he’d gotten away from it all coming here. Despite the constant insistence from his parents that he would burn eternally for being gay, he never did believe God—if He did exist—would damn him just for having a mostly-innocent crush on Freddie Mercury. At twelve years old he couldn’t understand how loving someone could be wrong, but by the time he ran away a few months after coming out, his parents had given him plenty of reasons. Still, even now he refused to be ashamed, even if there was a tiny, nagging doubt in the back of his mind. Ryan could despise him all he wanted, but Brendon wasn’t going to hide just because his roommate was a bigot.

Wiping quickly at his cheeks, Brendon kicks the blanket back towards the corner and stalks off to his room to get ready. In the shower, he pretends it’s only the hot water that makes his lashes stick together.

\---

“Brendon! Hey, Brendon, wait up!”

Brendon turns, a smile breaking across his face as he sees Dallon running up the path, looking a little comical with his dark hair flopping in the wind and long legs stretching out before him.

“Hey, Dallon.” He beams, smoothing down the skirt of his uniform without thinking.

“Bren, hey, uh, what’s up?” Dallon asks, falling forward and resting his palms on his thighs as he tries to catch his breath.

“Just...going to work.” Brendon gives a small, amused smile. “What about you?”

Dallon straightens up, reaching behind his back before procuring a slightly mangled bunch of flowers. “Here.” He breathes, wiping at the light sheen of sweat across his forehead. “They’re daisies, they just bloomed.”

Brendon blinks as he stares down at the flowers in Dallon’s fist, reaching out to take them carefully into his hands. “Thank you.” He murmurs, feeling warmth spread across his face.

“No problem. Give a few to Jon, would you? He was asking about the sprouts last night.”

Brendon nods. “Of course, yeah, I’ll pass them on.”

Dallon gives a wide smile and Brendon pictures Times Square during Christmas. “Thanks, you’re the best. See you later.” He says before running off.

Brendon watches him go, standing with a dreamy smile across his lips and the daisies pressed up against his face.

A scoff sounds behind him.“You gonna just stand there like a lovesick girl or what?”

Brendon turns just in time for Ryan to shoulder check him as he passes by and continues up the walk towards the mansion. He stumbles slightly, nearly dropping the flowers in his hands. Suddenly, they look as if they’re wilting.

\---

Once he’s at work, Brendon doesn’t really have the time to dwell on Ryan’s newfound hatred towards him or even how Dallon makes him feel like he’s falling from the sky and walking on air all at once. Pete apparently has become an author overnight because his room is covered in crumpled pieces of paper that Brendon isn’t brave enough to open and look at. There’s empty Red Bull cans all across the bed where Brendon notices Pete is actually still asleep on.

He’s sprawled out on his stomach with one arm folded beneath his head and the other hanging loosely off the side of the mattress. His sheets are bunched up by his feet and a pen lays on the floor just beneath his twitching fingers beside a discarded hoodie that he was wearing the day before. Brendon notices that he has a few tattoos he's never seen before: one on his bare back right below his neck, and some on his arms. His face is a little funny with his cheek smushed up against his arm and his hair all in his eyes, but he also looks so much younger—and nicer.

Brendon gives a tiny smile as he takes a moment to appreciate how beautiful Pete is when he’s not making lewd comments or telling Brendon that he’s ‘really sorry, but something happened in the bathroom and he didn’t mean to, but it’s bad’. Pete gives a soft snort and his leg kicks at his sheets, pushing them to the floor and causing Brendon to take a step back out of the room and gently shut the door. He’s not about to wake a sleeping dragon when he’s got a castle to clean.

In one of the guestrooms there’s a bed that has its covers all mussed and its pillows strewn across the room. Obviously someone’s slept in it, but Brendon doesn’t know who because he was in here just yesterday and the bed had been perfectly made. Whoever it was had to have slept over last night, but he hadn’t heard anything the day before about any guests, and when he came in today there wasn’t any chatter about someone staying either. He frowns, puzzled, but begins pulling the covers back so he can strip the sheets and change them, picking up the pillows that look almost beaten from the looks of the strange lumps in them, and placing them back on the bed.

In the bathroom, the shower is still wet and the mirror has stains from someone not being careful when they spit their toothpaste out. Someone was here not only last night, but this morning too, and recently. Shaking his head, Brendon just wipes down the mirror and makes sure there’s enough toilet paper before grabbing his things and going out into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

The sound of heavy, fast footsteps sounds at his back and Brendon turns just in time to catch a flash of tan and white before he’s tackled to the ground, flat on his back.

“Hem- _Hemingway_!” Brendon cries, struggling to catch the breath that has just been knocked out of him. “Get _off_ , bad dog!”

The dog only butts his head against Brendon’s cheek and licks at his nose, pushing up under Brendon’s chin and wiggling his bottom in lieu of wagging his non-existent tail.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Pete’s room? I didn’t see you in there, what have you been doing?” Brendon asks with a frown as he manages to sit up, pushing the dog off of his chest.

Hemingway has been a nuisance to Brendon since the day they met, when Pete burst through the front door with a wide smile on his face and a very energetic puppy in his arms announcing that the new prince had arrived and everyone better cater to his every whim or else the king would have them executed. Being executed sounded a lot like being fired, so Brendon silently prayed he wouldn’t have to deal with the puppy. Luckily, he only cleaned, so he didn’t have to worry about cooking special dog food, like Spencer, or the dog chewing on grass only to throw it up all over freshly planted flowers, like Dallon. _Un_ luckily, Brendon only cleaned, and Hemingway hadn’t come to the house potty trained.

The dog—not full grown yet, but getting there—looks up at Brendon and jumps up so his paws land on the housekeeper’s shoulders. He whines, and Brendon has come to recognize that noise as one that means if they don’t move soon, there will be a serious mess on the carpet for Brendon to deal with.

“Fuck, okay, okay,” Brendon says quickly, shoving the dog off of him and standing, patting his thigh as he goes for the stairs. “Come on, I’ll take you. Fuck, come on, please just make it outside.” He begs, trotting down the hall and nearly jumping down the stairs with Hemingway bounding in front of him.

Outside, Hemingway promptly rushes for the bushes and Brendon sighs in relief.

“Not the marigolds!” Dallon cries, running over and groaning as Hemingway lifts his legs right over the yellow blooms. “Not _again_.”

“Sorry, that was probably my fault.” Brendon says, giving a sheepish grin. “He was upstairs and Pete is sleeping so I had to take him out before he ruined the carpet.”

Dallon turns and gives a pained smile. “It’s okay. I don’t blame _you_.” Though from his tone, Dallon definitely blames somebody, and Brendon doesn’t think it’s the dog either.

“Hey, do you know if someone stayed over here last night?” Brendon asks, whistling to get Hemingway back over by him instead of sniffing in the roses like that might be a good place to dig.

“Last night? No, I haven’t heard about any guests.” Dallon shakes his head. “Why?”

Brendon shrugs, reaching down to pet the bulldog so he won’t run off again. “One of the rooms was used.”

“Weird.” Dallon frowns, pushing his hands into the pockets of his worn and dirty jeans. “I can ask my guys, but I don’t think anyone came in last night.”

“Don’t worry about it, Pete may have just gotten bored of his own room and decided to mix it up a little.” Brendon rolls his eyes. He’s found the teenage billionaire asleep in other rooms before, usually with another person—or five.

Dallon nods and flashes a smile. “Probably.” He laughs. “Well, I need to go see if those marigolds are salvageable.” He sighs. “I’ll see you later, Bren.”

Brendon waves and ignores the way his heart pounds at the way Dallon’s mouth quirks up on one side more than the other when he smiles. He pats his leg again for Hemingway and walks back up the path and into the house.

“What am I going to do with you?” He sighs, glancing down at the bulldog. “I can’t clean with you following me around, and the only other place I know of is the kitchens.”

Hemingway just yawns and snuffles at his paws.

“You know that Spencer will kill me if I take you with me.” Brendon frowns.

The dog plops his bottom half down with a soft _thump_ and pants softly.

“Don’t you give me that look.” Brendon threatens, wagging a finger down at him. After a moment of silence, Brendon sighs and deflates. “Alright, alright, come on then. Stupid Pete sleeping ‘til fucking three in the afternoon.” He mutters, stomping towards the kitchen and pushing the swinging door open.

“Bren, hi hon-Brendon Urie you get that _beast_ out of my kitchen!” Spencer shrieks.

“I can’t, he’s following me! Pete’s asleep and he won’t go away.” Brendon whines, pulling a stool out and sitting down.

“He’d better not be expecting some gourmet fuckin’ dog food.” Jon growls, looking over his shoulder to glare down at Hemingway. “Cause we’re already busy enough.”

Brendon shakes his head. “No, I think he al–”

“Spence, we’ve got a problem.” Ryan shoves the door open and steps in, eyes wide.

“Oh, so we exist now?” Spencer asks mildly, turning away to break a column of pasta in his hands and set it in a large pot of boiling water.

“The hell are you talking about? Of course you ex–I don’t have time for this, listen-”

“Because when you left last night to go sleep at Pete’s, and then didn’t come back until early this morning, and _then_ left again just a few minutes later, I kind of assumed you just thought no one was home.” Spencer says lightly, grabbing a very large knife and beginning to skillfully dice some onions.

Brendon blinks in surprise and turns to look at Ryan, petting Hemingway absently when the dog jumps up into his lap. _Ryan_ was the one in the guest room? Was he so disgusted over Brendon that he couldn’t even stand to be in the same _house_?

Ryan frowns, brows knitting together. “That isn’t fair. I left because–”

“Because you’re emotionally stunted and lash out when things don’t go your way. I know exactly why you left, Ryan, don’t try to bullshit me.” Spencer snaps, tossing a handful of the chopped onions into the pot and grabbing a tomato.

There’s a lot of loud talking outside and Brendon turns his head towards the door curiously, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach when he thinks about Ryan sleeping here. It sounds like people are shouting and running around.

“What’s going on?” He asks, twisting around to look at Jon.

“That’s what I was trying to _tell you_!” Ryan cries, exasperated. “Pete’s parents are coming.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long, but thank you for being patient! I hope you like this one, drama is for sure about to start (as if it hasn't already)  
> Also, I've opened writing commissions and set up a ko-fii so I can write more and work less (as I am a poor college student). If you like my writing go ahead and visit
> 
> here: http://just-folie-a-deux-it.tumblr.com/post/169282214885
> 
> or here: https://www.ko-fi.com/cmarkwill
> 
> to support me!

Spencer freezes and Jon actually drops the knife he was holding, the utensil falling to the ground and clattering loudly against the tile. No one seems to notice except for Brendon.

“When?” Spencer asks, as if he’s trying to gauge how long they have before the mansion is laid siege.

“Tomorrow,” Ryan says flatly, sounding like they have absolutely no hope.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jon swears, smacking his hands down onto the counter. “How did you find out?”

“No one was supposed to know—Pete still doesn’t even know; they just told Alan and one of the yard guys found the letter under a bush.” Ryan bites his lip, and Brendon has never seen the normally stoic boy look so nervous.

“Probably left it there on purpose,” Spencer sighs. “Alan isn’t one to leave us to fend for ourselves. Fuck, tomorrow?”

Ryan nods.

“Make some coffee, Jon, we’re staying the night.” Spencer shakes his head and pushes a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends with a distressed noise. It might be funny how it sticks up all over the place once Spencer lets go if he didn’t look so anxious.

Jon just swears again, but he leans down to pick up the fallen knife and goes to the pantry.

“What’s so bad about Pete’s parents?” Brendon finally asks, gently rubbing one of Hemingway’s ears as the dog struggles to climb up into his lap. The stool he’s on is too high, and the bulldog’s legs are far too short.

Ryan blinks and looks over at Brendon, as if just noticing him, and frowns. “Well, besides the fact that they’re in charge of all of our paychecks, they’re the most difficult people to please that I’ve ever met, and that’s including Pete.”

“And if they’re unhappy, we’re unhappy,” Spencer mutters, twisting the dial on the stove to reduce the flickering blue flame down to a low glow beneath the pot.

“Last time they were here they told me my hair was too long and my face was girlish,” Ryan huffs, crossing his arms.

“Your face _is_ girlish, hush. At least Pete protects you; they tried to say I didn’t need Jon in the kitchens and should be doing everything on my own.” Spencer frowns.

“ _Actually_ , they said, and I quote, ‘That cook doesn’t need the grubby little hippy boy to help him, he’s just trying to be lazy and his helper makes a mess. You should let him go.’” Jon says, walking back out with a large bag of coffee grounds in his arms. “‘Helper’, they called me!”

“It’s bad news that they’re coming at all, but it’s worse news that we only have a day’s notice,” Ryan says firmly, looking back at Brendon. “You’d better make this place look spotless or they’ll be on you like rabid dogs.”

Brendon feels the blood drain from his face and he nods, trying to ignore the way his stomach begins to churn.

“Don’t you scare him, Ryan. Nobody’s been fired yet; every time they try to tell Pete he needs to change something, he throws a tantrum until they leave.” Spencer waves a wooden spoon in their direction. “But you do need to make sure you’re on top of everything, Brendon. He’s right, they’ll do everything they can to make anyone here break.”

“Your job isn’t in danger, but your sanity is,” Jon mutters.

“I-I’m gonna just go then,” Brendon whispers, pushing off of the stool and carefully moving Hemingway’s paws off of him so they don’t tear his new stockings.

“Don’t work yourself up,” Spencer says firmly. “If you freak out, you’ll just be worse off in the long run. You’ve got to keep it together, at least until they leave.”

Brendon nods.

“And if you need anything, we’re here,” Jon adds.

“Ryan too.” Spencer gives a long, hard look at Ryan, who finally nods, ducking his head.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here too,” he mutters. “But you’ll probably just run off to yo—”

“Go on then, out!” Spencer waves his spoon again, and Brendon doesn’t wait around to see just what he plans to do with it.

\---

By the time Brendon’s shift is technically over, he’s scrubbed every bathroom down twice and washed all the bedrooms’ sheets and some extras, just in case anyone needs spares. He vacuumed the carpets in each room and the hallways, checked the media rooms to make sure Pete didn’t leave any more soda cans or Dorito crumbs around, and he even dusted every piece of furniture he could, despite feeling like he was in a bad porno with the small skirt and feather duster in his hand. He brushed down the curtains and opened all the windows so none of the rooms would be musty, wiped down the banisters and swept the stairs, and polished the bronze tiger statues by the front door until his elbow ached, but at least he could see his reflection in the shining metal. He’s not entirely sure what else he should do. He’s _always_ done the best he could, but everyone’s made it seem like his best won’t be good enough now. Pete’s parents sound like giant monsters coming to eat him up if they don’t like the way he mopped the floors.

“Brendon!”

Brendon whips around, hand flying to his chest as his heart nearly bursts out of his ribs, pounding painfully.

Pete grins his too-wide grin as he walks forward, still in the jeans he slept in and no shirt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I guess you heard my parents are coming?”

Brendon nods, trying not to look too terrified.

“Great, then you know everything has to be perfect when they get here. I swear, they think I’m running this place into the ground with all the fuckin’ bitching they do when they come.” Pete rolls his eyes, looking vaguely annoyed, but there's something familiar in the way his gaze drops to the ground, almost like he wishes his parents _did_ approve; Brendon forces himself not to think of other people who wished they had their parents approval. “Anyways, I know you’ll have the place sparkling or whatever, but I was thinking, like, I know you love your little outfit and stuff—believe me, we all do—but maybe you could like, wear something else? Just while they’re here?”

Brendon blinks and it doesn’t even occur to him to be angry that Pete’s insinuating that the humiliating outfit was his idea, or to protest that he’d rather wear something else every single day. He just stares, because the billionaire is looking at him like he thinks Brendon will say no, like he’s actually _afraid_ that Brendon is going to try and fuck him over.

“Of-of course, yeah, no, of course,” Brendon nods. “Whatever you need.”

Pete sighs in relief and Brendon can see him physically deflate. “Thank you,” He breathes. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, they’ll just be totally weird about it and it’s not like they don’t have enough to criticize about me.”

Brendon nods again, vaguely wondering if Pete thinks that him wearing the costume is something to _not_ be weird about. “No problem.” He murmurs.

Pete grins again and takes a step forward to hug Brendon, tight and genuine. “You’re the best.”

Brendon is so surprised he can’t even speak, let alone hug back or push Pete away or scream.

“Hey, there you are,” Pete looks down, pulling back from the hug and kneeling in front of Hemingway. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up, where have you been?” He asks as the dog jumps up into his arms.

“Oh, he’s been with me,” Brendon says once he has the ability to speak again. He’s still stunned, and he’s not sure he won’t just up and pass out once Pete is gone.

“You took care of him?” Pete asks, looking up. “I knew there was something about you that I liked when I hired you. You’re too good for me,” Pete hums, standing and shifting Hemingway in his arms.

Brendon is grateful for the dog that’s pushing his face against Pete, because if he’s there, then Pete can’t hug him again.

“No problem,” Brendon repeats. “I really should—go, then,” he says, taking a step back. “I’ll, um, see you tomorrow.”

Pete nods, obviously not listening anymore as he scratches Hemingway’s ears and coos to him.

Brendon turns, shaking his head. Maybe Pete’s parents _are_ some sort of otherworldly monsters, and they have weird powers that make everyone act strangely. It must be the only explanation, because never in a million years would Brendon _ever_ think that Pete may actually be kind beneath his endless layers of arrogance.

\---

It turns out that the entire staff comes together like the only remaining survivors of the apocalypse whenever Pete’s parents are coming. There are yard workers helping wash cars and waitstaff doing laundry and even Alan is polishing silver at the dining room table. It’s like no one has a specific job anymore, if there’s a task to be done, whoever can, does. Once Brendon is done cleaning the house (meaning once Dallon insists that it’s as clean as it could possibly get) he helps Jon and Spencer in the kitchens for a while. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Wentz expect at least a three-course set up for every single meal. Brendon’s not really sure if three-course breakfasts even exist, but he doesn’t question it. He just chops up slices of ham like Jon showed him how for omelets and mashes orange halves down onto a strange split up spear that’s for making juice, according to Spencer.

After Spencer finally decides that they’ve prepared as much as they possibly can, Brendon goes out to see if Dallon needs any help in the yard. It’s still dark out, and he’s forced himself out of bed before the Sun’s risen plenty of times, just to be ahead, to know just how difficult it can be to not trip over roots or fall into rose bushes full of thorns.

After he’s changed into a dirty pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he makes his way out the door and into the front yard where a handful of men are scattered across the grass, bent down trimming bushes or pulling weeds.

“Brendon!” Dallon calls, standing and waving. There’s a flashlight in one of his hands and a small pair of clippers in the other. Even in the dark, Brendon can see how wide and bright his smile is.

“Hey, Dal,” Brendon hums, jogging towards him. “Need a hand?”

Dallon gives a tired laugh, lifting one arm to wipe at his forehead. A small smudge of dirt is left behind. “I could use ten hands.”

“Well, I’ve only got two for now, but they’re all yours,” Brendon grins.

“I’ll take anything I can get; we’re getting close to being done, but a few of my guys are out sick and no one else knows how to prune the flowers without overdoing it.” Dallon grimaces. “So I’m stuck having to do it all myself.”

“Do you have a spare pair of shears?” Brendon asks.

“As a matter of fact,” Dallon reaches down into the makeshift apron/tool belt around his waist, pulling out another identical pair of clippers and offering them to Brendon.

“Why am I not surprised?” Brendon shakes his head, but there’s an affectionate smile making his lips twist as he takes the shears.

Dallon shrugs. “A good gardener is always prepared, I’d think you knew that, Urie.”

Brendon laughs. “Oh, I didn’t know we were pretending you were a good gardener, ‘Weekes’,” He teases.

Dallon scowls. “Oh, go on then, get out of here,” He huffs, waving a hand.

Brendon laughs again, turning and giving a wave before he gets to work. He’d forgotten not only how much work went into maintaining the yard, but also how quickly it could get tiring. Thinking back, he isn’t sure at all how he did everything by himself.

Apparently, he’d also forgotten how easy it was to lose himself in his thoughts when he was working the yard, because he doesn’t even notice how the sky begins to lighten to a purplish-grey as the Sun starts to rise. He doesn’t hear the footsteps running towards him either, and therefore is terribly surprised and gives a loud shout when Ryan yanks him up by his arm.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ryan cries.

“Wh-what are you talking about?” Brendon asks, trying to pull away and dropping his shears.

“It’s six-thirty, they’re going to be here in an hour and a half and you’re covered in fucking dirt and smell like week-old garbage!” Ryan shouts, tightening his grip on Brendon’s arm and pulling him towards the house. “They can’t see you like that or you’re definitely going to lose your job, no matter how many tantrums Pete throws.”

Brendon blinks and looks down at himself. He _does_ have soil all over his jeans, especially on the worn knees, and grass stains too. He pushes a hand through his hair only to realize it’s been plastered against his forehead with sweat; he probably doesn’t smell so great.

“Sorry,” He mumbles. “I just got distracted, I was trying to help Da—with the yard work.”

“I know what you were doing,” Ryan mutters, pushing the front door open and dragging Brendon inside. “It doesn’t matter, we need to get you clean and presentable.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything, just stumbles after Ryan trying to keep up. There’s no use in arguing, especially since Ryan’s already made it _very_ clear what his feelings are.

He isn’t surprised when Ryan tugs him up the stairs and down the hall, presumably towards a bathroom, but he is surprised when Ryan drags him into Pete’s room and into his bathroom.

“Here?” Brendon frowns, looking around at the freshly-cleaned surfaces. Just a few hours ago he’d picked Pete’s dirty laundry up off of the floor and wiped the mirrors down.

“Better to dirty this one up than any of the others; they’ll expect it from him,” Ryan explains, pushing past Brendon to lean down and turn the water on.

Brendon nods, biting his lip and twisting the hem of his dirty once-white t-shirt in his hands.

“You gonna take that off or do I have to strip you down too?” Ryan turns back, one hand under the faucet to test its temperature.

Brendon blinks and blushes brightly, his face feeling far too warm. “Oh–oh. Right, yeah, sorry,” He mumbles, feeling even more self-conscious than he usually does around Ryan as he pulls his shirt up over his head and hesitantly reaches for the button on his jeans.

“Look, I’m not gonna try and cop a feel,” Ryan spits, looking at least offended, if not even a little hurt. “Here, you take a shower and I’ll go find you some clothes. You do know how to shower?”

Brendon swallows and nods, biting back a retort about how he could have showered back at their place on his own and didn’t need any of Ryan’s help, thank you very much. Instead, he pushes his jeans down and kicks his shoes off, hopping on one foot for a minute to pull his sock off. He waits until Ryan pushes past him and goes out the door, shutting it firmly before he tugs his boxers off and steps into the running shower.

It’s warm and soothes the tired ache in his muscles, but it also makes his eyes heavy and his jaw crack from the strength of a colossal yawn. The steam swirling around him could be a soft blanket, and maybe if he just leaned against the wall for a minute, only closed his eyes for a few seconds…

“Don’t you take your time in there!” Ryan calls, smacking his hand against the door. “Hurry up so we can get you dressed!”

Brendon blinks and frowns, rubbing his eyes with his fists and sighing.

“There ain’t no rest for the wicked...” He hums softly to himself, grabbing the bottle of shampoo on Pete’s shelf. As he pours some into his hand, he’s surprised to find it smells like strawberries. As he scrubs it into his hair, the scent just gets stronger and he hopes that no one will notice he and Pete both smell like they fell into a vat of jam; That could only raise all sorts of troublesome questions.

After he scours his skin clean with incredibly foamy body wash that also smells like strawberries—he wonders if Pete bought a set at some kind of rich peoples’ Bath and Body Works—and rinses his hair out, Brendon turns the water off and steps out of the shower before grabbing one of the fluffy white towels (Which by the way, he had just washed) and drying himself off, wrapping the towel around his waist before slowly stepping out into Pete’s room. He shivers, goosebumps rising on his skin as he walks out of the warm bathroom and into the cold air of the bedroom.

“Ryan?” He calls after a moment, not entirely sure if he wants an answer back or not.

“Fucking finally,” Ryan appears in the doorway, cheeks flushed. “Hurry up, I put clothes on the bed for you. They’re gonna be here in five minutes!”

“You said we had an hour and a half!” Brendon protests.

“I thought we did!” Ryan cries, running in and snatching the towel from Brendon’s waist before throwing a pair of black slacks at him and a white dress shirt. “Here, fuck, put these on. There're shoes by the door, fuck, hurry up!”

Brendon nods, not even caring that he’s ass-naked now. He rushes for the clothes and scrambles to pull on the pants, nearly falling flat on his face. He also doesn’t protest when Ryan tugs the dress shirt over his arms and pulls his hands through the sleeves, quickly buttoning it as Brendon zips his pants and yanks on socks and shoes.

“Come on!” Ryan cries, grabbing Brendon’s hand and sprinting down the hallway.

Downstairs, everyone is standing in a small group in front of the front door. They aren’t necessarily in rows, but there’s a definite purpose to where each person is standing, and as Ryan slides in next to Spencer, Brendon skids to a stop beside him.

“Stand up straight,” Ryan mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “And don’t forget to call them madam and sir.”

“Madam?” Brendon whispers.

“Madam,” Ryan says firmly. “Don’t speak unless spoken to, bow before you leave their presence.”

Brendon nods. He can feel a small bead of sweat drip down his back and he clenches his fists in hopes to curb the shaking of his hands.

“Anything else?” Brendon squeaks.

“Yeah,” Ryan murmurs. “Don’t fuck up.”

Brendon opens his mouth to argue the helpfulness of that statement, but the doorbell sounds, chimes echoing through the hall; the noise reminds Brendon of a church bell, eerily giving out a single death toll. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I've been talking to a handful of people that have a say in how Heels goes (I just toss ideas around with them and am like 'Good or bad???' and they say good or bad and we go from there) and I've been considering having Bryllon (Dallon/Brendon/Ryan) be what ends up happening instead of ryden. However I'd like to get everyone's opinions on that (at least those fairly invested in how Heels ends) so I made a poll and if you have an opinion over me putting Bryllon in the story, please let me know here: https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/2WX6B5W
> 
> There's an 'other' option where you can leave comments and I'd super appreciate it if you did, if you have anything to add other than just a yes or no answer! 
> 
> Also, of course, thanks for being so patient with me as I put chapters up. Now that the semester is over you can expect chapters up much sooner! The fic may even end up finished by the time school starts up again! One more thing, comments and kudos are much appreciated as I'm sure we all know (especially comments bc I live for feedback)

Taking a deliberate step forward, Alan lightly claps his hands and two boys dressed in black slacks and white shirts similar to Brendon’s go to each door before pulling them open almost ceremoniously.

Just _barely_ audible, Alan sighs before taking a deep breath. “Announcing Master and Madame Wentz.”

His voice echoes loudly throughout the room for a few moments before a man and a woman Brendon can only assume are Pete’s parents step inside. Mrs. Wentz has her hand daintily laid atop her husband’s arm, and as they walk in she glances around, nose wrinkling in blatant disgust. Immediately, Brendon is reminded of his mother down to the way Mrs. Wentz has her hair tied up in a painfully tight bun with not a single strand out of place; he forces down the sick feeling quelling in his stomach. Mr. Wentz, on the other hand, displays no emotion at all besides perhaps complete and utter boredom. 

“Mom, dad!” Pete steps forward with open arms and a wide smile; Brendon finds himself reminded of a nature documentary he watched where the narrator explained how primates bare their teeth as a sign of submission or fear. 

“Peter,” Mr. Wentz says, voice dull and monotone as he seems to take no notice of Pete's attempt at a hug. 

Pete hesitates for a moment, but wraps both of his parents in an embrace, holding them tight before pulling away and offering another wide smile. “How was your trip? Have you heard from Hillary lately? I’ve missed you.”

“Peter, this place looks simply ghastly,” Mrs. Wentz admonishes, ignoring Pete’s questions. She frowns up at her son as her gaze darts around the room.

There's a pause and Brendon notices the muscle in Pete’s jaw twitch and tighten. “A matter of opinion,” he finally grits out. “Are you hungry? Spencer and Jon made dinner; let’s eat and I’ll have someone take your things upstairs.”

“So you’ve kept the scrubby hippy then?” Mrs. Wentz’s tone is light, but out of the corner of his eye Brendon can see Spencer grip Jon’s bicep as if to comfort him, or maybe restrain him.

Pete shrugs. “I think he’s more than worth—”

“Peter, he probably throws his paycheck away on drugs,” Pete’s mother whispers loudly, eyes flicking towards Jon and then back at her son. “Something awful, like _marijuana_.”

Brendon holds back a snicker. If Mrs. Wentz is this horrified at the idea of Jon buying weed, she would probably have a heart attack if she found out the array of things Pete takes at least every other weekend at parties.

Pete just shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you want to say hello to the rest of the staff before we eat?” His voice is strained, though his mother looks equally harried.

All the same, she nods and tugs Pete’s father towards the group of people around Brendon. Mr. Wentz’s expression is flat and dull, as if he’s far too used to the arguments between his son and wife and got beyond tired of them years ago.

Brendon watches as Pete’s parents go down each line, finding something to criticize about every person they stand in front of; he thinks Jon may actually lunge when Mr. and Mrs. Wentz glance over him and don’t do anything but sniff disdainfully and move on. By the time all of the staff before him have been dismissed to correct whatever mistake that had been decided they made, Brendon is shaking and doesn’t even notice that he’s gripping Ryan’s hand hard enough to snap his bones. However, once Pete’s parents are in front of them, Ryan’s hand disappears and suddenly Brendon feels as if he’s floating alone in deep space.

“You’re new,” Mr. Wentz notes flatly, lip curling.

Brendon blinks and nods quickly. His mouth feels like an endless desert, dry and hot, and his tongue is heavy and thick in his mouth.

“What’s your name?” Pete’s father asks, though he doesn’t sound like he especially cares.

“Bren—Brendon.”

“Brendon? Brendon what?” Mrs. Wentz arches a brow.

For a moment, Brendon is back at home with his mother furiously confronting him about rumors of him kissing Carson Nguyen; she too had the look that no matter what answer he gave, it would be the wrong one. The sound of Mr. Wentz clearing his throat yanks him back to the present, though, and he blinks quickly.

“I’m—I’m sorry?”

“Not very bright, is he, Peter?” Mrs. Wentz has pity and maybe something like concern written across her features, and Brendon might even believe she cared if he hadn’t just watched her make a girl cry over the way her hair was styled.

Pete looks uncomfortable, brow furrowed and teeth tugging nervously at his bottom lip. He makes a non-committal noise and shrugs. “Look, here’s Ryan!” he says instead, plastering a strained smile across his face.

“Mr. Ross.” Mr. Wentz gives a short nod, one Brendon might even call respectful if he didn’t know better.

“Master Wentz.” Ryan gives a curt nod back.

“Oh, Ryan, you’re keeping Peter out of trouble, aren’t you?” Mrs. Wentz cries suddenly, turning and taking Ryan’s hands in her own lace glove covered ones.

“As always,” Ryan says simply, bringing her hand up to brush lightly with his lips.

Brendon can only stare, dumbfounded. If they thought he was stupid before, one look at his face now would whisk away any doubts they may have held. Who the fuck is _this_ guy, all suave and charming as he lets Mrs. Wentz take his arm before leading her down the hall? Certainly not Ryan, who only moments ago was berating Brendon for not buttoning his shirt correctly.

“You get used to it.”

Brendon twists around to find Spencer and Jon behind him, each looking equally grim, though Jon perhaps a bit homicidal as well.

“Used to what?” Brendon asks, glancing back to see Ryan laughing with Mr. Wentz as they disappear around the corner. Only moments ago he’d have bet his entire paycheck that Mr. Wentz didn’t even know _how_ to smile, let alone _laugh_.

Jon snorts. “Pete’s parents and their bullshit.”

Brendon bites his lip, tugging at it. “Why do they like Ryan so much?”

“They think he’s some saint who keeps Pete out of trouble.” Spencer rolls his eyes. “Good God, if only they knew.”

Brendon nods, sighing softly. He made himself look like an absolute fool in front of the people he needed to impress the most. What if they fire him anyways, whether Pete tries to save his ass or not? Not that Brendon's convinced he would, if it came down to it.

“Hey, don’t worry about them,” Jon says, reaching forward to clasp his hand on Brendon’s shoulder. “They’re mean to everyone, you didn’t do anything wrong. And they weren’t singling you out, even if it felt that way, I promise.”

Spencer nods. “If anyone gets singled out, it’s scrubby hippy boy over here.”

Jon glares. "Maybe I will quit and you'll have to run the whole kitchen by yourself. You think anyone else would put up with your bossy bullshit? Newsflash: they wouldn't."

"If you left maybe I'd actually get something done every once in a while instead of having to argue with you over the fucking radio." Spencer grins.

"Oh, go fuck yourself. Don’t you have someone else to annoy?” Jon asks, flipping Spencer off.

“No, but I do have to dessert to start prepping for, and so do you unless you want to lose that paycheck you throw away on your precious dope, so let’s get a move on before Master and Madame Asshat find a reason to make our lives more miserable than they already do,” Spencer says firmly.

Jon huffs, but doesn’t argue. “Whatever,” he mumbles before turning to Brendon. “Don’t let them get you down, alright? It’ll only be for a few days and then everything will go back to normal.”

“Only a few days,” Brendon echoes softly, nodding.

“We’ll see you at home, Bren, try and stay out of trouble.” Spencer grins, winking before he grabs Jon by the wrist and tugs him towards the kitchens.

“Only a few days.” Brendon nods again, firmer. “How bad can it be?”

\---

The answer turns out to be very, _very_ bad. Jon can protest all day long that Brendon isn’t being singled out, but the worst thing that’s happened to him has been Mrs. Wentz implying that his mother was a drug addict who prostituted herself out for money and that’s why Jon has no motivation. Bad, yes, but nothing compared to what Brendon’s been going through the past two days even if Spencer keeps (firmly) insisting it’s not a contest.

Ever since their arrival, the Wentzes seem to have made it their goal to break Brendon in every sense of the word. Instead of asking any of the numerous servants who have been spending their time anxiously standing by waiting for a command, they have Brendon do any and all tasks they can think of, all in addition to the ones he has to carry out for the job he’s actually getting paid for. Within the past two days Mrs. Wentz has had him leave his house at midnight to bring her a snack in bed all the way back at the mansion— from the kitchens to her room at the top floor, nonetheless—go fetch clean towels even though Brendon tried explaining he had just washed the ones she was shoving in his arms, drive her into town to shop for an entire afternoon only to purchase absolutely nothing and then drive her home, and iron a pile of clothes that she ended up tossing onto the floor anyways after deciding on something hanging in the closet, just to name a few things. Mr. Wentz isn’t as bad, but he’s always looking at Brendon like he’s a bug the billionaire would love nothing more than to smush beneath his shoe.

Between ordering him around and complaining about what a terrible worker he is, Pete’s parents’ favorite activity seems to be criticizing anything and everything about him no matter who’s around to hear. Yesterday they were sitting by the pool while Pete and _Ryan_ were swimming (because _God forbid_ Ryan do his job rather than laze around with the Wentzes, cuddling up to their prickly asses like some lapdog) and when Brendon brought them drinks, Mrs. Wentz asked if he went to church. When he replied that no, he didn’t anymore, she nodded thoughtfully and said, “I didn’t think so. God certainly wouldn’t want your kind in His house.” before taking her drink from Brendon and waving him away.

Brendon had made absolutely sure that he was out of calling distance before he let the hot tears burning at his eyes run down his cheeks.

Today’s a new day, though, and even as he trudges towards the dining room to bring Mrs. Wentz a glass of sparkling room temperature water (because the first glass he brought was _obviously_ a few degrees too cold and would give her a headache, what was he trying to do, make her ill?) he tells himself at least he isn’t being made to wear that god awful maid costume. He can’t say he misses the blisters on his feet he’d find at the end of the day after spending hours upon hours walking around in those high heels, so that's at least one thing to be grateful for, if perhaps the only thing.

As he steps into the room, he takes a deep breath and plasters a polite smile across his face. “Your sparkling water, madame,” he says softly, offering Mrs. Wentz the crystal glass.

Mrs. Wentz glances over and takes the glass in her hand, sipping at it. “I suppose it’ll do.”

Brendon grits his teeth but keeps his cordial expression in place and nods.

“Thank you, Brendon,” Pete says, offering a more than apologetic smile.

“You’re welcome,” Brendon murmurs, pretending he doesn’t see Mrs. Wentz roll her eyes as he turns to leave.

“Peter, did you hear about the Stumphs?” She asks.

Pete sighs, loud and exaggerated. Brendon can just see him resting his cheek against his fist, obviously uninterested. “No, what about them?”

Mrs. Wentz sniffs. “Their son, Patrick, you remember him? You used to play together when you were younger, he was the little strawberry-blonde boy.”

“I remember, mother,” Pete says, and Brendon pictures him rolling his eyes.

“Yes, well, their son, Patrick, he’s…” Mrs. Wentz takes a shaky breath and Brendon turns without thinking. She looks almost in pain. “Homosexual.”

It’s the last thing Brendon thought she was going to say; from her tone, he was expecting perhaps ‘been diagnosed with a terminal illness’ or ‘was in a terrible car accident’.

Pete blinks, arching a brow. “So?”

“So? So, Peter, what if you were too? You spent enough time with them at their Summer home when you were younger, and obviously it must have been how they raised him.” Mrs. Wentz looks almost tearful.

“Oh must it have been?” Pete snorts.

Mrs. Wentz rolls her eyes now, and Brendon can suddenly see exactly where Pete got his impudence from. “How else would he have gotten it, Peter? Being _born_ with it?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been listening to those bleeding-heart liberals, son,” Mr. Wentz takes a bite of his steak and then sips at a half-full glass of wine. “They just want to take our money and give it to those lazy ne'er-do-wells.”

Pete sighs, shaking his head and runs a hand through his hair. “You two _are_ aware it’s the twenty-first century? We should be well past this.”

Mrs. Wentz frowns, and then to his surprise, turns to Brendon. “You don’t think those...people should be allowed to marry like my son, do you?” The way she says 'people' makes Brendon think she doesn't believe that's what they are at all. 

He blinks, eyes growing so wide he’s almost afraid they’re going to fall out of his head. “I…”

“See, Peter? Even your worthless little servant boy disagrees with you. He knows they’re all going to burn too.” Mrs. Wentz turns back to her son, looking self-satisfied.

Pete snorts. “You didn’t even give him a chance to answer, mother. Brendon isn’t exactly one to judge people for their preferences, trust me.”

Mrs. Wentz blinks, lips twisting down into a frown. “And just what is that supposed to mean? He isn’t one of them?” Now her gaze whips back around to Brendon. “You aren’t one of them?”

Brendon can feel his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to burst forth and explode right there in front of Ryan and Pete and his parents and anyone else who may happen to walk by. He’s sixteen again, shoving a book about Michelangelo filled with nude men in it under his bed as soon as he hears his mother walking up the stairs.

“Answer me,” Mrs. Wentz says firmly, and now he's eighteen, his mother thrusting a picture of him sprawled out in Anthony Vecci’s lap, drunk and kissing his cheek, demanding just what this is.

His hands are shaking and he can feel cold sweat making his shirt damp. Still, no words come.

“And what if he is? What if I am, mother?” Pete asks.

Mrs. Wentz whirls around, eyes wide with horror and Brendon takes the opportunity to rush out the door now that no one is watching him. As he sprints down the hall towards the bathroom to throw up, he hears Pete’s mother gasp “That’s a _disgusting_ joke, Peter, don’t you say things like that!”

As he runs, he doesn't even think to ask himself if he'll ever get to stop. 


	11. Chapter 11

It’s to Brendon’s absolute astonishment that Pete’s parents leave the next morning. He’s woken up by Spencer shaking him none-too-gently and crying “Come on, come on, we’ve only got thirty minutes!” though when he asks “Till what?” he doesn’t receive any answer. His head hurts and his nose is stuffed up from spending most of the night crying to himself in the dark of his room, curled up on his side and trying to ignore the thought of just how many times he’s done this before, and how he had come here for the sole purpose of never having to do it again.

Rubbing at still-swollen eyes, he pushes up and makes his way to the kitchen only to find utter chaos where Jon frying eggs should be. There are dress shirts being flung about and a blur of color passes him by that vaguely resembles Spencer with no pants on. It takes a few minutes, and a mug of coffee cupped carefully in his palms, but finally, Brendon comes to his senses enough to deduce that Pete’s parents are departing and apparently that requires the same pomp and ceremony as their arrival. The thought of having to face Mr. Wentz with his coldly calculating gaze or Mrs. Wentz with her sharp eyes and sharper tongue makes Brendon want to crawl right back into bed and never leave again, but he knows that his job most likely depends on his attendance, and a small part of him whispers that not showing up would be letting them win.

It’s for those reasons that he makes himself let Spencer dress him, though he can’t bring himself to admit the real reason his eyes are red-rimmed and his cheeks too pale when Spencer asks if he’s feeling alright as he does up the buttons of Brendon’s shirt. He’s sure Spencer doesn’t believe him when he mumbles out an excuse of not sleeping well, but the other boy doesn’t push for anymore and Brendon is immeasurably grateful.

“This shouldn’t take as long as before,” Jon says as they briskly walk up the way to Pete’s mansion. “They tend to leave a lot faster than they come, though who wouldn’t?”

Spencer snorts and holds the door open for Brendon and Jon before carefully shutting it behind himself as they step into the hall. “You’d think they would expect it by now, it isn’t like every visit isn’t exactly the same; why come at all?”

Jon shrugs, and Brendon follows after him to where the rest of the staff is once again lined up in strict rows facing the two colossal front doors.

“See you on the other side,” Spencer whispers, catching Brendon’s hand in his own and squeezing it before trotting off to join Jon at their spots.

Brendon’s about to make his way over to the place he was standing before when he hears what sounds like a shout of his name.

“Brendon? Brendon!”

He turns around, eyes widening as he sees Pete half-running towards him in the same stiff white shirt and black slacks he’d donned for his parents' arrival; the _exact_ same, in fact, from the purplish wine stain that’s still a splotch on his collar.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Pete asks, finally coming to a stop in front of Brendon and giving a short gasp for breath.

“S-sure, is everything alright?” Brendon asks, half-wondering if he should go get Pete some water or something.

Pete nods and waves a hand before frowning and shaking his head. “No, not really. But that’s what I need to talk to you about, come on.”

Biting his lip and tugging it between his teeth a little too hard, Brendon follows after Pete once the billionaire has managed to stand upright again and start walking down the hall.

“Am...am I in trouble?” Brendon asks, internally cursing the way his voice sounds so small.

Pete blinks and twists around to glance back over his shoulder at Brendon, surprise making his eyes widen. “Trouble? What would you be in trouble for? No, no, just come on.”

Brendon nods, unsure, but keeps walking until Pete grabs the cuff of his sleeve and tugs him down an adjacent hallway where his parents are standing, looking far more than uncomfortable.

Immediately his muscles tense and Brendon ignores the shrieking scream of _run!_ that’s echoing in his mind.

“Brendon, I want to start by saying that I’m sorry,” Pete says, taking a step back and clasping his hands behind his back.

Brendon’s gaze flicks from his boss to each of his parents. He’s vaguely reminded of some horror movie he watched when he was younger where the killer lures his victim to his house to murder him and apologizes before doing so, looking truly sorrowful the entire time; he had sounded quite a bit like Pete does now.

“Sor-sorry for what?” Brendon asks, fighting the urge to take a step back.

Pete bites his lip, gazing at his shoes for a moment before looking back up at Brendon with an almost determined expression. “Sorry for not defending you. The way you were treated the past few days was...really fucked up. I should have said something, and I didn’t, so I’m sorry.”

Brendon blinks, eyes widening and darting from Pete’s seemingly genuine, apologetic expression to his parents, who look as if they’ve each swallowed entire lemons.

“Um, no. No, it’s okay, Pete, really. Thank you for saying that, though,” Brendon murmurs.

Pete shakes his head. “No, it’s not okay. I was being...I was a coward, and you’re my employee, and I care about you, and I should have spoken up for you. But that’s beside the point right now. I believe my parents have something they would like to say as well.”

Brendon quickly shakes his head, feeling his face light up bright with heat. “No, no, really, they don’t have to—”

“Enough,” Pete says, holding up a hand. “Father?”

Mr. Wentz clears his throat, his hands clasped behind his back in a similar manner to Pete’s. “I apologize for not treating you with the utmost respect, Mr. Urie. I was unaware just how...important you and your feelings were to my son, which was my misunderstanding. I won’t make the same mistake again.” He nods firmly, almost to himself, and Brendon wonders just what mistake he’s actually referring to.

“Thank-thank you, sir,” Brendon whispers. He feels as if he’s in a dream, but the kind of almost-nightmare where he’s come to school in only his underwear and he knows it’s not real, but the embarrassment and vulnerability sure are.

“Mother?” Pete turns, arching a brow.

Mrs. Wentz looks as if she’d rather be shoveling cow manure for Dallon’s garden than where she is now, but she still takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she turns her gaze on Brendon. “I am sorry if my words offended or hurt you. That...was not my intention, and though that is no excuse, I apologize nonetheless.”

Pete frowns, and a beat of silence passes as if he’s waiting for more from his mother, but nothing comes and Brendon nods before any more forced, awkward apologies can be made.

“Thank you,” He repeats. “I, um, forgive you?”

Mrs. Wentz nods shortly and takes her husband’s arm, turning swiftly on her heel and walking back down the hall with Mr. Wentz at her side. It isn’t until they’ve disappeared that Pete exhales and slumps against the wall.

“Fuck. Jesus fuck.” He tilts his head back, eyes shut and one hand over his chest as if he’s just run a marathon. After a minute he blinks and looks at Brendon. “Was that good? I know it wasn’t much; they’re really bad at apologizing, they always have been, but I told them I would leak to the media that they’re homophobic assholes if they didn’t say sorry to you. It may be true, but they don’t want the world knowing it.” He gives a strained sort of laugh, almost hysterical, and briefly Brendon wonders when the last time he slept was; there are dark circles beneath his eyes that he’s only just noticed.

“It was wonderful, Pete, thank you. You didn’t have to,” Brendon murmurs, reaching out and taking Pete’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

Pete gives a soft, tired laugh and nods. “You’re welcome.” There’s a pause, pure silence filling the hall for a long minute. “They won’t be coming back. Not for a very long time, at least.”

Brendon blinks, taking a step closer. “What? Why? Because of me?”

“No, no. No, not because of you. Probably because I finally stood up to them. They said, though, that I needed to take some time to sort out my priorities and could call them when I’ve decided to become respectable again.” The same tired laugh leaves his lips, if a little more bitter this time. “As if I’ve ever been respectable.”

Brendon frowns and tugs at his bottom lip before taking another step closer. “I think you’re very respectable. What you did for me was the kindest thing anyone’s ever done, I mean it. Thank you.” Before he can second-guess himself, he leans up on his tiptoes and presses a chaste kiss to Pete’s cheek before stepping back, his own flushed bright.

Pete blinks and his deep brown eyes widen as he turns to look at Brendon. To Brendon’s surprise, Pete’s face is tinged just as pink as his own. After a minute, though, his skin fades back to its normal tan and he smiles. “Thank you.”

Brendon nods, and Pete pushes up off the wall, straightening his shirt and brushing a hand through his hair.

“Let’s get this over with, huh? Sooner they’re gone, sooner things can go back to normal.” Pete offers a slight smile that Brendon finds himself returning.

“Yeah.” He nods. Normal will be nice. Hell, maybe Ryan will stop being a complete jackass, or at least take some time off as one. The thought makes Brendon bite back a laugh. As if.

“And hey,” Brendon turns and Pete has his too-wide smile taking up half his face. “Once things calm down again, you can wear your outfit again, huh? Bet you’ve missed that thing, right?”

Brendon fights back the flat stare threatening to take over his features and just shakes his head. “Oh yeah. Mhm.”

Still, as strange as it is, outfit and all, Brendon can’t say he won’t be relieved to have things back to normal. Whatever the fuck that is.


	12. Chapter 12

Pete’s parents leave with far less pomp and ceremony than they arrived with. Maybe Pete talked to them about more than just Brendon, or maybe they just wanted to get the hell out before anything else could threaten to shake up their carefully constructed worlds. Either way, once the double doors shut behind them there’s a beat of silence before the entire room erupts into cheers. Brendon looks around, eyes widening as he sees servants tossing their bowties in the air and sharing embraces with one another. Jon even has an arm slung over Spencer’s shoulder as they both walk up, wide grins across their faces.

“It’s finally over, _fuck_ ,” Jon breathes, tossing his head back and laughing.

Spencer rolls his eyes, though the smile stretching across his cheeks isn't fading. “You do still have to work, though.”

“Not tonight,” Jon hums, tugging at a strand of Spencer’s hair and earning a swipe towards his face that he neatly ducks.

“Why not tonight?” Brendon asks, glancing over Spencer’s shoulder to see if he can get any sort of glimpse of Ryan.

Spencer huffs. “Because tonight Pete is going to throw a huge fucking party to celebrate his parents leaving, like he always does, and he’s going to leave a huge fucking mess for everyone to clean up the next morning, like he always does.”

Jon snorts. “Don’t act like you don’t have fun at them.”

“I don’t even _go_ to them anymore,” Spencer protests.

“That’s only because you walked in on Ryan—” Jon swallows and shakes his head. “They’re fun, anyways,” he says to Brendon. “Lots of people go and sometimes they wear costumes and the music is pretty alright, and the food is usually really good too, but you have to keep your head on straight.”

Spencer frowns. “I don’t know why you’re telling him all of this, it isn’t like he’s going.”

Brendon blinks, turning back to look at the two bickering men in front of him; Ryan is nowhere to be seen. “What? Why not?”

Spencer blinks too, eyes widening as if the idea of Brendon even _thinking_ about going is beyond absurd. “Because they’re insane, Bren, Jesus. There're all kinds of drugs and everyone gets rip-roaring drunk and there are people fucking anywhere and everywhere, privacy be damned, I suppose. It’s just a huge mess.”

“Not everyone is a giant prude like you,” Jon mumbles under his breath with a grin.

Spencer shoots him an icy glare, but shakes his head and looks back to Brendon. “You don’t want to go, Brendon, all that’s waiting there for you is trouble, trouble, and more trouble. Trust me, you’re better off staying at home with us.”

“ _Us_?” Jon’s grin slides right off his face. “Who is us? You may not want to go, but that doesn’t mean I don’t!”

Spencer whirls around, face a mix of fury and disbelief. “You can’t be serious! What the fuck do you want to go for? It isn’t like you drop acid regularly and the last time I saw you drink was a sip of wine that you spit out because you said it tasted like ass! What, you have someone you feel like fucking in front of everybody?”

Pink blooms across Jon’s cheeks and slowly morphs into a deep red. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before shaking his head. “I didn’t say that. You just don’t have to assume everything, is all.”

Spencer’s cheek flush lightly and to Brendon’s surprise, he nods. “I know, I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Just...after what happened last time, I don’t want anyone…”

“I know,” Jon says softly, the color fading from his cheeks and a smile replacing his indignant expression.

“What happened last time?” Brendon asks.

Spencer turns, biting his lip. “Nothing. Nothing, don’t worry about it, you just really shouldn’t go, alright? You’ll only end up regretting it, one way or another.”

Brendon opens his mouth to argue but a girl in a stark-white apron that must only be for presentation runs up and drags Spencer and Jon away with cries of a disaster in the kitchen. Sighing, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks and wistfully notes that this will probably be the last time he wears any kind of pants at work, for a while, at least.

A flash of dark, messy hair and gangly limbs makes his gaze dart towards the front doors and he finds himself smiling to Alan as he passes through them, going out into the front yard.

“Dallon!” He calls, stepping down the walkway and carefully avoiding the freshly planted flower beds.

The gardener turns, squinting for a moment, and then smiles broadly. “Brendon! Hey, hallelujah, am I right? Ding dong the witches are dead!”

Brendon laughs and jogs forward to catch up with Dallon. “I don’t think Pete’s parents are _dead_ , but praise the lord all the same, I suppose.”

Dallon laughs too, his teeth bright as his smile widens and his eyes crinkle nearly shut.

“What are you doing?” Brendon asks. “Today’s a day off, right?”

Dallon nods, resuming his walk across the grass, slower now that Brendon’s tagging along. “Yeah, I just wanted to check on the saplings is all. What are you doing?”

“I dunno, nothing it seems,” Brendon murmurs. “Nothing to clean, no one to boss me around.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Dallon asks, glancing down with an arched brow and the hint of a smirk on his lips.

Brendon shrugs. “I guess, but I’m bored as hell. Spence and Jon had some culinary catastrophe to take care of and there's nothing to do.”

Dallon nods, and Brendon finds himself grateful for the fact that he doesn’t ask about Ryan, though it’s obvious the other boy is what’s filling the silence.

“Did you hear about Pete’s party?” Dallon asks instead, holding the door to the toolshed open for Brendon before stepping in after him.

“Yeah, but Spencer said I shouldn’t go. Apparently, Satan himself comes and turns everyone into dirty sinners and then you die.” Brendon mutters, toying with a broken piece of flowerpot.

“Oh?” Dallon doesn’t turn from where he’s examining tiny planted trees, lifting their leaves gently and bending down to peer into the soil.

Brendon nods. “He nearly blew a gasket when Jon mentioned going himself.”

Dallon chuckles. “Well, they’re practically married, aren’t they? He would care about his husband going off to party with strangers.”

“Are you gonna go?” Brendon asks, glancing up as Dallon turns around with a satisfied nod, his saplings apparently acceptable.

“Ah, I don’t know. I’m not much of a partier, I’d rather stay at home and play music or something.” Dallon smiles as Brendon holds the door open for him now and turns to lock it with the same old skeleton key he himself used to have.

Watching his step for the cracked piece of concrete that was once a stepping stone, Brendon stops to wait for Dallon to lock up. “Yeah, me too.”

Dallon’s cheeks are pink, but whether that’s from his pleasure at Brendon waiting or the Sun beating down on them, Brendon can’t say. “Are _you_ gonna go? You only said Spencer told you not to, not whether you would.”

Brendon makes a noncommittal noise, tilting his head back and forth. “I dunno, probably not. I was never into that whole ‘get fucked up and not remember last night’ game. I wake up with enough headaches as it is.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, kid,” Dallon laughs, falling into step beside him as they make their way back to the house.

“I am curious, though,” Brendon admits. “Spencer makes it sound like Pete is Gatsby and the whole city is coming to disregard prohibition together.”

Dallon gives a small smile. “I think I’m gonna head home for the day, since everything seems to be quiet for now. Let me know if you do go, though. Maybe I’ll go too, just for a little while, to see things. Not many Gatsby parties are thrown these days.”

Brendon can feel his heart skip a beat as he nods quickly. “Yeah, yeah I will, for sure.”

Dallon nods too and opens one of the large double doors for Brendon, winking as he shuts it, leaving three inches of oak between them.

\---

There’s a little bounce in his step as Brendon walks down the hall, past all of the guestrooms and towards the tiny closet that holds all of his cleaning supplies. He’s out of a few things and told himself after Pete’s parents left that he’d take inventory and make a list of what he needs. Humming some song to himself that he heard on the radio and can’t remember the name of, he nods his head to the beat. Thoughts of Pete’s party are dancing around in his head; it isn’t that he really wants to go, especially if Spencer thinks it’ll be so dangerous, but he is curious as to just what happened last time. Ryan will probably be there, though, and Brendon’s more confused than ever about where they stand at this point. He definitely doesn’t want to risk getting drunk and making even more of a fool of himself than he already has, that’s for sure. In fact, he doesn’t really want to get drunk at all; memories of Carson Nguyen swirl in his head, mixing with those of his mother screaming and flinging the torn pages of his Michelangelo book at him. No, a night in with Spencer and Jon sounds far better than doing something Pete would consider fun, the fact of which really should have been enough to sway him from going in the first place.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Brendon freezes. That’s Pete’s voice. Grimacing, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes; it’s been hardly thirty minutes since his parents have left and he’s already hooking up with someone? It isn’t like he can say he’s surprised, but who could have had the time to get here and be fucking around with him in just this short span of time? Frowning he glances back over his shoulder at the closed door where Pete’s moans are coming from. It only takes a few seconds for his heart to sink to his stomach as he realizes _exactly_ who is behind that door with Pete.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ryan,” Pete groans.

Brendon bites down on his lip, hard, and shakes his head. It’s none of his business; he and Ryan have barely said two words to each other since Pete’s parents arrived and all this is is a stupid, childish fucking crush. His chest shouldn’t be aching this way. Why is his chest aching this way?

“He really doesn’t have any sense of dignity, does he?”

Brendon whirls around, stumbling back away from the stranger towering over him and clutching at his chest where his heart threatens to pound right out of his ribcage.

It’s a man, tall and broad, with dark skin and lots of tattoos, more than Brendon could count just by looking. He’s wearing large glasses that make his face look gentle and friendly, and as he pushes a handful of dreadlocks back into one hand to tie up, he smiles.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just heard Pete and was gonna tell him to shut the fuck up.”

Brendon nods, eyes wide.

“I’m Travie,” the man tries, offering his free hand.

“I’m—I’m Brend—Brendon,” Brendon manages, taking Travie’s heavily inked hand and shaking it.

Travie smiles and nods. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for nearly giving you a heart attack, I thought you heard me coming.”

“I did not,” Brendon breathes, straightening up and pushing a hand through his hair. “Nice to meet you. Who are you, exactly?”

Travie laughs, a wide grin spreading over his face. “Well, I suppose you would have to ask him for a formal definition; we've fucked around a few times, dated a little while, but all in all I’m just one of Pete’s friends. Arguably his best friend, though Gabe might resent that. I’m here for the party. That’s tonight, right?”

Brendon nods. “Yeah, yeah it is. I think it is, at least, I haven’t actually heard very much about it.”

“Are you going?” Travie asks.

Brendon opens his mouth to say no, he is not going, he would rather die than go to this party full of booze and drugs and sex and rich people, but another moan joins Pete’s in the room behind them and he glances back for a split second before nodding.

“Yes. Yes I am.”


	13. Chapter 13

“You stupid fucker,” Brendon mutters to himself, shaking his head. “You really were that bitch, huh? ‘Oh yes, of course I’m going to my billionaire boss’ party full of rich people I'm nothing like, yeah, I’ll see you there!’ You don’t have anything to fucking _wear_ , what were you _thinking_?”

“You know, they say talking to yourself is a symptom of insanity,” A voice says from the doorway. “Or was it genius? I can’t remember.” Jon shrugs, walking in without waiting for Brendon to invite him.

Brendon sighs, turning away from the mirror where he's been berating himself for the last half hour and flopping onto the bed. “It must be insanity because that’s the only way my decision to go to this fucking thing makes any sense.”

“You know you don’t _have_ to go,” Jon points out. He kneels beside Brendon’s guitar in the corner and absentmindedly strums the strings. “It’s not like Pete will fire you for not showing up.”

Brendon rolls onto his back, staring up at the bare ceiling. “I know. But I want to go... I think.” 

Ever since he told Travie he'd be going, his mind has been a chaotic, messy war over whether that's true or not, and so far no clear winner has made itself obvious. 

Jon laughs and straightens back up, walking over to sit beside Brendon and ruffle his hair. “Is this just some sort of teenage rebellion? Are you crying out for help?”

Brendon snorts, throwing his arms above his head. “No, _dad_ , but thank you for your concern.”

“Of course, son.” Jon grins down at him, warm and kind, and for a moment the weight on Brendon's chest lifts. “You know, your mother is absolutely losing his shit over you going to this thing. I think he’s considering tying you up and leaving you here just so you can’t go.”

Brendon's mouth turns down in a frown. “I don’t want Spencer to worry,” he insists. “I probably won’t even stay that long, I just… I need to get my mind off of things, need some time to just let go.”

_Need some time to think about anything other than fucking Ryan._

Jon’s smile becomes a knowing frown. “Pete’s party isn’t going to make you forget anything, not permanently, and I hope you're not going to do something stupid just because you want to run away from your problems. You should really just talk to him, Bren.”

Brendon sits up and mashes his palms into his eyes, rubbing them before gripping the ends of his hair, elbows resting on his knees. He doesn't even pretend to not know who Jon means. “About _what_? What am I supposed to say, Jon? ‘Hey, this may seem really out of the blue but I was wondering just exactly why you hate me?’ Yeah, I’m sure that’ll really open up a good discussion.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Jon says, not unkindly. “He doesn’t hate you, Ryan’s just… complicated is all. And I don’t mean that in a beautiful, poetic way, I mean it in a frustrating, douchey way.”

“If he doesn’t hate me, why does he always act like I'm the only one who fucks up, and look at me as if there's no one else in the world he'd rather be farther away from, or just flat-out ignore me any other time?” Brendon demands, lifting his head now and looking over, brow furrowed and cheeks hot. It's the same question he's been asking himself almost since he started working inside for Pete, and just like each time he's asked it before, he has no answer other than the one he desperately  _doesn't_ want now. 

Jon shakes his head, smiling slightly. “If you don’t know, I can’t be the one to tell you.”

Brendon groans, falling back on the mattress and tossing an arm over his eyes. “You’re no help to me, Jon Walker, just absolutely useless.”

“Funny,” Jon hums. “Pete’s mom said the exact same thing to me the other day.”

A smile twitches at Brendon’s lips, though he doesn’t move. Maybe he will just stay home, sprawled across his bed and feeling sorry for himself. If he can't go to Pete's party without looking like a fool, at least he can throw his own pity party here; he's dressed for that at least. 

“Maybe I’m no help with Ryan, but I can find you something to wear for the party,” Jon offers.

The extra weight lifts off of Brendon’s bed and he moves his arm to look over. Jon is rummaging through his—sadly lacking—closet and shaking his head.

“No, no. None of that. You have to go big or go home for these things,” he mutters.

“I don’t have anything ‘big’,” Brendon mumbles.

Jon turns, grinning. “Well lucky for you, I know somebody who does.”

\---

“Jesus, Spence, that’s a lot of glitter, even for me,” Brendon says, twisting around to look at his back. The shirt Jon shoved over his head shimmers and sparkles a pale blue, rustling with his movements.

Spencer rolls his eyes, though his cheeks are a slight pink. “Yeah, well, I only wore it once anyway.”

“The theme was ‘stardust’,” Jon explains.

Brendon blinks, turning. “There are themes for these things?”

“No one really follows them,” Spencer snorts. “Pete should just say the theme is ‘slutty’ each year; that’s how everyone dresses anyways.”

Jon grins. “There’s that inner prude coming out again.”

“I’ll show you a prude, Jon Walker,” Spencer growls, taking a step forward and raising his fist.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Jon asks, arching a brow.

Brendon turns away from the pair and continues to rummage through Spencer’s closet, pushing hangers back and tugging drawers open before finally pulling something out. “What about this?”

Spencer blinks, wriggling away from where Jon has him locked in a chokehold and elbowing the other boy in the side for good measure. “Oh, that’s slutty alright.”

Brendon blushes and looks at it, nodding. “I like it. Can I try it on?”

“Try anything you want,” Spencer says. “Like I said, most of it is shit I only wore one time for those damn parties, I doubt anyone will notice you borrowed it from me.”

“Thanks,” Brendon murmurs, going back into the bathroom to strip down and change. The sequins from Spencer’s shirt scratch at his cheeks as he tugs it off, but once he’s dressed again in the new clothes he hardly notices; it’s certainly nothing he would ever wear on a day-to-day basis.

For one, the pants are made of a shiny gold leather that hugs his thighs tight and clings to him all the way down to his ankles, more than accentuating curves he didn’t have before in his plain jeans. There are pockets, but he isn’t sure he could fit anything in them from the way the fabric basically makes itself a second skin. The shirt is a simple black tee, but it’s form-fitting as well and the v-neck dips lower than any he’s ever worn before. At least there’s no glitter, and knowing Pete he probably won’t even be the gaudiest person there by a longshot.

Opening the bathroom door, he steps carefully out, biting his lip and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Spencer now has Jon pinned to the floor and his cheeks scrunched up like he's about to spit on the other man. Brendon frowns, crossing his arms. “Well?”

Jon looks up and whistles, long and low.

“You’ll fit right in,” Spencer says, sighing and crawling back off of Jon to sit on the floor against his bed.

“I’m gonna be fine,” Brendon laughs, albeit a little nervously. “What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll get too drunk and fuck some bratty rich kid?”

There’s no response from either man, but Spencer stands and beckons him over to a small vanity, sitting down.

“You’ll need a little makeup, just so you don’t stand out,” he says, offering a small stick of eyeliner.

Brendon blinks. “Makeup will make me stick out _less_?”

“Oh god, you are _so_ in for it,” Jon snickers.

Spencer tugs him down so their faces are level and then skillfully swipes a line of black beneath each of Brendon’s eyes, smudging it carefully with his fingertips and tilting Brendon's head this way and that before nodding to himself. “There.”

Brendon blinks for a moment, waiting for his eyes to refocus before he glances in the mirror. His eyes are wide, but the makeup makes them seem alluring and sexy instead of perpetually surprised. “I don’t even look like myself,” he breathes, lightly tapping at the smudged black under his eyes.  

“Don’t fuck it up,” Spencer huffs, grabbing Brendon’s wrist. “Not yet, at least.”

Brendon smiles and nods, leaning down to wrap his arms around the cook and hug him close for a moment. “Thanks, Spence.”

“What about me?” Jon asks indignantly.

Laughing, Brendon pulls away and opens his arms.

“I don’t want your pity hug,” Jon sniffs. “But I will take your undying thanks and call it a day.”

Brendon rolls his eyes and grabs Jon’s shirt, pulling him in for a brief embrace. “Thank you, Jon Walker, I’m sure I’d be absolutely nothing without your endless patience for me.”

He can feel Jon’s smile against his shoulder and the small trembles of his body as he laughs. “Yeah, you got that right. And don’t you forget it.”

“You’d better go on then,” Spencer says, nodding towards the door. “Can’t exactly be late to these things, but you’ll want to get there before things go full swing.”

Brendon pulls back, straightening his shirt and nodding. He hopes they don't notice that his hands are sweaty and shaking. “Yeah, alright. I guess I’ll see you guys later tonight, then.”

“You’ll call if you need us?” Spencer says, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Of course,” Brendon promises.

Jon waves, falling back onto Spencer’s bed. “Make your mother and me proud!”

Brendon grins, shaking his head and shutting the door behind him as goes down the hall and then outside. Immediately he can see the mansion ahead of him glowing bright with what seems like every light it holds, many of different colors that flicker every few seconds. Music is already blaring out, loud enough he can catch snippets of the song quite clearly from his doorstep; if things aren’t already in full swing, he’s not sure if he won’t be running back home by the end of the hour. Bracing himself, he takes a step forward and nods. 

“It’s now or never, Urie,” he murmurs to himself, taking a deep breath. “May as well be now.”


End file.
